II 


TR  AILIN'! 


BY 

MAX  BRAND 

Author  of  "  The  Untamed,"  etc, 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

fmfcfcerbocfcer    press 
1920 


t 


COPYRIGHT,   1919,  BY 
MAX   BRAND 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
MAX   BRAND 


ROBERT   HOBART   DAVIS 
MAKER  OF  BOOKS  AND  MEN 


r>2r>i83 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — "LA-A-A-DIES  AN'  GEN'L'MUN"  .         i 

II. — SPORTING  CHANCE     .         .         .10 

III. — SOCIAL  SUICIDE          ...       20 

IV. — A  SESSION  OF  CHAT  .         .       29 

V. — ANTHONY  is  LEFT  IN  THE  DARK      40 

VI. — JOHN  BARD       ....       47 

VII. — BLUEBEARD'S  ROOM  ...       56 

VIII. — MARTY  WILKES.         ...       63 

IX.— "Tms  PLACE  FOR  REST"  .         .       72 

X. — A  BIT  OF  STALKING  .         .         .81 

XL — THE  QUEST  BEGINS  ...       90 

XII.— THE  FIRST  DAY         ...       99 

XIII. — A  TOUCH  OF  CRIMSON       .         .     109 

XIV. — LEMONADE         .         .         .         .117 

XV. — THE  DARKNESS  IN  ELDARA        .     129 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI—  BLUFF 137 

XVII. — BUTCH  RETURNS        .         .         .     146 

XVIII. — FOOLISH  HABITS        .         .         .159 

XIX.— THE  CANDLE     .         .         .         .167 

XX.— JOAN 173 

XXL — THE  SWIMMING  OF  THE  SAVERACK     181 

XXII. — DREW  SMILES   .         .         .         .189 

XXIII. — THE  COMEDY  SETTING        .         .     197 

XXIV.— "SAM'L  HALL"  ....     205 

XXV. — HAIR  LIKE  THE  SUNSHINE          .     213 

XXVI. — "THE  CRITIQUE  OF  PURE  REASON "   220 

XXVIL— THE  STAGE        .         .         .         .228 

XXVIII. — SALLY  BREAKS  A  MIRROR  .     237 

XXIX.    THE  SHOW        .         .         .         .248 

XXX.— THE  LAMP         .         .  .     256 

XXXI. — NASH  STARTS  THE  FINISH  .     264 

XXXIL— TO    "APPREHEND"    A    MAN  .       272 

XXXIIL— NOTHING  NEW  284 


Contents  vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIV.— CRITICISM 296 

XXXV.— ABANDON           ....  304 

XXXVI.— JERRY  WOOD     .         .         .         .  316 

XXXVII.— "TODO  ES  PERDO"    .         .         .324 

XXXVIII.— BACON 332 

XXXIX. — LEGAL  MURDER         .         .         .  343 

XL. — PARTNERS.         ....  353 

XLI. — SALLY  WEEPS   ....  362 


TRAILIN' 


CHAPTER  I 
"LA-A-A-DIES  AN'  GEN'L'MUN" 

ALL  through  the  exhibition  the  two  sat  un 
moved  ;  yet  on  the  whole  it  was  the  best  Wild  West 
show  that  ever  stirred  sawdust  in  Madison  Square 
Garden  and  it  brought  thunders  of  applause  from 
the  crowded  house.  Even  if  the  performance  could 
not  stir  these  two,  at  least  the  throng  of  spectators 
should  have  drawn  them,  for  all  New  York  was 
there,  from  the  richest  to  the  poorest;  neither  the 
combined  audiences  of  a  seven-day  race,  a  prize 
fight,  or  a  community  singing  festival  would  make 
such  a  cosmopolitan  assembly. 

All  Manhattan  came  to  look  at  the  men  who 
had  lived  and  fought  and  conquered  under  the 
limitless  skies  of  the  Far  West,  free  men,  wild  men 
— one  of  their  shrill  whoops  banished  distance  and 
brought  the  mountain  desert  into  the  very  heart 


2  Trailin' 

of  the  unromantic  East.  Nevertheless  from  all 
these  thrills  these  two  men  remained  immune. 

To  be  sure  the  smaller  tilted  his  head  back  when 
the  horses  first  swept  in,  and  the  larger  leaned  to 
watch  when  Diaz,  the  wizard  with  the  lariat, 
commenced  to  whirl  his  rope;  but  in  both  cases 
their  interest  held  no  longer  than  if  they  had  been 
old  vaudevillians  watching  a  series  of  familiar 
acts  dressed  up  with  new  names. 

The  smaller,  brown  as  if  a  thousand  fierce  suns 
and  winds  had  tanned  and  withered  him,  looked  up 
at  last  to  his  burly  companion  with  a  faint  smile. 

"They're  bringing  on  the  cream  now,  Drew, 
but  I'm  going  to  spoil  the  dessert. " 

The  other  was  a  great,  grey  man  whom  age 
apparently  had  not  weakened  but  rather  settled 
and  hardened  into  an  ironlike  durability;  the 
winds  of  time  or  misfortune  would  have  to  break 
that  stanch  oak  before  it  would  bend. 

He  said:  "We've  half  an  hour  before  our  train 
leaves.  Can  you  play  your  hand  in  that  time?" 

"Easy.  Look  at  'em  now — the  greatest  gang 
of  liars  that  never  threw  a  diamond  hitch!  Ride? 
I've  got  a  ten-year  kid  home  that  would  laugh  at 
'em  all.  But  I'll  show  'em  up.  Want  to  know  my 
little  stunt?" 

"I'll  wait  and  enjoy  the  surprise." 


"  La-a-a-dies  an'  GenTmun"       3 

The  wild  riders  who  provoked  the  scorn  of  the 
smaller  man  were  now  gathering  in  the  central 
space;  a  formidable  crew,  long  of  hair  and  brilliant 
as  to  bandannas,  while  the  announcer  thundered 
through  his  megaphone : 

"La-a-a-dies  and  genTmun!  You  see  before 
you  the  greatest  band  of  subduers  and  breakers  of 
wild  horses  that  ever  rode  the  cattle  ranges.  Death 
defying,  reckless,  and  laughing  at  peril,  they  have 
never  failed;  they  have  never  pulled  leather.  I 
present  'Happy'  Morgan!" 

Happy  Morgan,  yelling  like  one  possessed  of  ten 
shrill- tongued  demons,  burst  on  the  gallop  away 
from  the  others,  and  spurring  his  horse  cruelly, 
forced  the  animal  to  race,  bucking  and  plunging, 
half  way  around  the  arena  and  back  to  the  group. 
This,  then,  was  a  type  of  the  dare-devil  horse 
breaker  of  the  Wild  West?  The  cheers  travelled 
in  waves  around  and  around  the  house  and  rocked 
back  and  forth  like  water  pitched  from  side  to 
side  in  a  monstrous  bowl. 

When  the  noise  abated  somewhat,  "And  this, 
la-a-a-dies  and  genTmun,  is  the  peerless  cow- 
puncher,  'Bud  Reeves.'" 

Bud  at  once  imitated  the  example  of  Happy 
Morgan,  and  one  after  another  the  five  remaining 
riders  followed  suit.  In  the  meantime  a  number 


4  Trailin' 

of  prancing,  kicking,  savage-eyed  horses  were 
brought  into  the  arena  and  to  these  the  master  of 
ceremonies  now  turned  his  attention. 

"From  the  wildest  regions  of  the  range  we  have 
brought  mustangs  that  never  have  borne  the 
weight  of  man.  They  fight  for  pleasure ;  they  buck 
by  instinct.  If  you  doubt  it,  step  down  and  try 
'em.  One  hundred  dollars  to  the  man  who  sticks 
on  the  back  of  one  of  'em — but  we  won't  pay  the 
hospital  bill!" 

He  lowered  his  megaphone  to  enjoy  the  laughter, 
and  the  small  man  took  this  opportunity  to  say: 
"Never  borne  the  weight  of  a  man !  That  chap  in 
the  dress-suit,  he  tells  one  lie  for  pleasure  and  ten 
more  from  instinct.  Yep,  he  has  his  hosses  beat. 
Never  borne  the  weight  of  man!  Why,  Drew,  I 
can  see  the  saddle-marks  clear  from  here;  I  got  a 
mind  to  slip  down  there  and  pick  up  the  easiest 
hundred  bones  that  ever  rolled  my  way. " 

He  rose  to  make  good  his  threat,  but  Drew  cut 
in  with:  "Don't  be  a  damn  fool,  Werther.  You 
aren't  part  of  this  show. " 

"Well,  I  will  be  soon.  Watch  me!  There  goes 
Ananias  on  his  second  wind. " 

The  announcer  was  bellowing:  "These  man- 
killing  mustangs  will  be  ridden,  broken,  beaten 
into  submission  in  fair  fight  by  the  greatest  set  of 


"  La-a-a-dies  an'  GenTmun"       5 

horse-breakers  that  ever  wore  spurs.  They  can 
ride  anything  that  walks  on  four  feet  and  wears  a 
skin ;  they  can ' ' 

Werther  sprang  to  his  feet,  made  a  funnel  of  his 
hand,  and  shouted :  * '  Yi-i-i-ip ! ' ' 

If  he  had  set  off  a  great  quantity  of  red  fire  he 
could  not  more  effectively  have  drawn  all  eyes 
upon  him.  The  weird,  shrill  yell  cut  the  ring 
master  short,  and  a  pleased  murmur  ran  through 
the  crowd.  Of  course,  this  must  be  part  of  the 
show,  but  it  was  a  pleasing  variation. 

"Partner,"  continued  Werther,  brushing  away 
the  big  hand  of  Drew  which  would  have  pulled 
him  down  into  his  seat;  "I've  seen  you  bluff  for 
two  nights  hand  running.  There  ain't  no  man  can 
bluff  all  the  world  three  times  straight. " 

The  ringmaster  retorted  in  his  great  voice: 
"That  sounds  like  good  poker.  What's  your 
game?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars  on  one  card!"  cried 
Werther,  and  he  waved  a  fluttering  handful  of 
greenbacks.  "Five  hundred  dollars  to  any  man 
of  your  lot — or  to  any  man  in  this  house  that  can 
ride  a  real  wild  horse. " 

"Where's  your  horse?" 

"Around  the  corner  in  a  Twenty-sixth  Street 
stable.  I'll  have  him  here  in  five  minutes. " 


6  Trailin' 

"Lead  him  on,"  cried  the  ringmaster,  but  his 
voice  was  not  quite  so  loud. 

Werther  muttered  to  Drew : 

"Here's  where  I  hand  him  the  lemon  that'll 
curdle  his  cream,"  and  ran  out  of  the  box  and 
straight  around  the  edge  of  the  arena.  New  York, 
murmuring  and  chuckling  through  the  vast  galler 
ies  of  the  Garden,  applauded  the  little  man's 
flying  coat-tails. 

He  had  not  underestimated  the  time ;  in  a  little 
less  than  his  five  minutes  the  doors  at  the  end  of 
the  arena  were  thrown  wide  and  Werther  reap 
peared.  Behind  him  came  two  stalwarts  leading 
between  them  a  rangy  monster.  Before  the  blast 
of  lights  and  the  murmurs  of  the  throng  the  big 
stallion  reared  and  flung  himself  back,  and  the 
two  who  lead  him  bore  down  with  all  their  weight 
on  the  halter  ropes.  He  literally  walked  down  the 
planks  into  the  arena,  a  strange,  half-comical, 
half-terrible  spectacle.  New  York  burst  into 
applause.  It  was  a  trained  horse,  of  course,  but  a 
horse  capable  of  such  training  was  worth  applause. 

At  that  roar  of  sound,  vague  as  the  beat  of 
waves  along  the  shore,  the  stallion  lurched  down 
on  all  fours  and  leaped  ahead,  but  the  two  on  the 
halter  ropes  drove  all  their  weight  backward  and 
checked  the  first  plunge.  A  bright-coloured  scarf 


"  La-a-a-dies  an'  GenTmun "       7 

waved  from  a  nearby  box,  and  the  monster  swerved 
away.  So,  twisting,  plunging,  rearing,  he  was 
worked  down  the  arena.  As  he  came  opposite  a 
box  in  which  sat  a  tall  young  man  in  evening 
clothes  the  latter  rose  and  shouted : ' '  Bravo ! " 

The  fury  of  the  stallion,  searching  on  all  sides 
for  a  vent  but  distracted  from  one  torment  to 
another,  centred  suddenly  on  this  slender  figure. 
He  swerved  and  rushed  for  the  barrier  with  ears 
flat  back  and  bloodshot  eyes.  There  he  reared 
and  struck  at  the  wood  with  his  great  front  hoofs; 
the  boards  splintered  and  shivered  under  the  blows. 

As  for  the  youth  in  the  box,  he  remained  quietly 
erect  before  this  brute  rage.  A  fleck  of  red  foam 
fell  on  the  white  front  of  his  shirt.  He  drew  his 
handkerchief  and  wiped  it  calmly  away,  but  a  red 
stain  remained.  At  the  same  time  the  two  who 
led  the  stallion  pulled  him  back  from  the  barrier 
and  he  stood  with  head  high,  searching  for  a  more 
convenient  victim. 

Deep  silence  spread  over  the  arena;  more  hushed 
and  more  hushed  it  grew,  as  if  invisible  blankets  of 
soundlessness  were  dropping  down  over  the  stirring 
masses;  men  glanced  at  each  other  with  a  vague 
surmise,  knowing  that  this  was  no  part  of  the 
performance.  The  whole  audience  drew  forward 
to  the  edge  of  the  seats  and  stared,  first  at  the 


8  Trailin' 

monstrous  horse,  and  next  at  the  group  of  men 
who  could  "ride  anything  that  walks  on  four  feet 
and  wears  a  skin." 

Some  of  the  women  were  already  turning  away 
their  heads,  for  this  was  to  be  a  battle,  not  a  game; 
but  the  vast  majority  of  New  York  merely  watched 
and  waited  and  smiled  a  slow,  stiff-lipped  smile. 
All  the  surroundings  were  changed,  the  flaring 
electric  lights,  the  vast  roof,  the  clothes  of  the 
multitude,  but  the  throng  of  white  faces  was  the 
same  as  that  pale  host  which  looked  down  from 
the  sides  of  the  Coliseum  when  the  lions  were  loosed 
upon  their  victims. 

As  for  the  wild  riders  from  the  cattle  ranges, 
they  drew  into  a  close  group  with  the  ringmaster 
between  them  and  the  gaunt  stallion,  almost  as 
if  the  fearless  ones  were  seeking  for  protection. 
But  the  announcer  himself  lost  his  almost  invinc 
ible  sang-froid;  in  all  his  matchless  vocabulary 
there  were  no  sounding  phrases  ready  for  this 
occasion,  and  little  Werther  strutted  in  the  centre 
of  the  great  arena,  rising  to  his  opportunity. 

He  imitated  the  ringmaster's  phraseology: 
"La-a-a-dies  and  genTmun,  the  price  has  gone 
up.  The  'death-defyin',  dare-devils  that  laugh 
at  danger'  ain't  none  too  ready  to  ride  my  hoss. 
Maybe  the  price  is  too  low  for  'em.  It's  raised. 


"  La-a-a-dies  an'  G^uTmun"       9 

One  thousand  dollars — cash — for  any  man  in 
hearin'  of  me  that'll  ride  my  pet. " 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  cattlemen,  but  still 
none  of  them  moved  forward  toward  the  great 
horse ;  and  as  if  he  sensed  his  victory  he  raised  and 
shook  his  ugly  head  and  neighed.  A  mighty  laugh 
answered  that  challenge;  this  was  a  sort  of  ''horse- 
humour"  that  great  New  York  could  not  overlook, 
and  in  that  mirth  even  the  big  grey  man,  Drew, 
joined.  The  laughter  stopped  with  an  amazing 
suddenness  making  the  following  silence  impressive 
as  when  a  storm  that  has  roared  and  howled  about 
a  house  falls  mute,  then  all  the  dwellers  in  the 
house  look  to  one  another  and  wait  for  the  voice  of 
the  thunder.  So  all  of  New  York  that  sat  in  the 
long  galleries  of  the  Garden  hushed  its  laughter 
and  looked  askance  at  one  another  and  waited. 
The  big  grey  man  rose  and  cursed  softly. 

For  the  slender  young  fellow  in  evening  dress 
at  whom  the  stallion  had  rushed  a  moment  before 
was  stripping  off  his  coat,  his  vest,  and  rolling  up 
the  stiff  cuffs  of  his  sleeves.  Then  he  dropped  a 
hand  on  the  edge  of  the  box,  vaulted  lightly  into 
the  arena,  and  walked  straight  toward  the  horse. 


CHAPTER   II 

SPORTING   CHANCE 

IT  might  easily  have  been  made  melodramatic 
by  any  hesitation  as  he  approached,  but,  with  a 
businesslike  directness,  he  went  right  up  to  the 
men  who  held  the  fighting  horse. 

He  said:  "Put  a  saddle  on  him,  boys,  and  I'll 
try  my  hand. " 

They  could  not  answer  at  once,  for  Werther 's 
"pet, "  as  if  he  recognized  the  newcomer,  made  a 
sudden  lunge  and  was  brought  to  a  stop  only  after 
he  had  dragged  his  sweating  handlers  around  and 
around  in  a  small  circle.  Here  Werther  himself 
came  running  up,  puffing  with  surprise. 

"Son,"  he  said  eagerly,  "I'm  not  aiming  to  do 
you  no  harm.  I  was  only  calling  the  bluff  of  those 
four-flushers." 

The  slender  youth  finished  rolling  up  his  left 
sleeve  and  smiled  down  at  the  other 

"Put  on  the  saddle, "  he  said. 

Werther  looked  at  him  anxiously;  then  his  eyes 

10 


Sporting  Chance  n 

brightened  with  a  solution.  He  stepped  closer 
and  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"Son,  if  you're  broke  and  want  to  get  the  price 
of  a  few  squares  just  say  the  word  and  I'll  fix  you. 
I  been  busted  myself  in  my  own  day,  but  don't 
try  your  hand  with  my  hoss.  He  ain't  just  a 
buckin'  hoss;  he's  a  man-killer,  lad.  I'm  tellin' 
you  straight.  And  this  floor  ain't  so  soft  as  the 
sawdust  makes  it  look, "  he  ended  with  a  grin. 

The  younger  man  considered  the  animal 
seriously. 

"I'm  not  broke;  I've  simply  taken  a  fancy  to 
your  horse.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  try  him 
out.  Seems  too  bad,  in  a  way,  for  a  brute  like  that 
to  put  it  over  on  ten  thousand  people  without 
getting  a  run  for  his  money — a  sporting  chance, 
eh?" 

And  he  laughed  with  great  good  nature. 

"What's  your  name?"  asked  Werther,  his  small 
eyes  growing  round  and  wide. 

"Anthony  Woodbury. " 

"Mine's  Werther." 

They  shook  hands. 

"City  raised?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  know  they  came  in  this  style  east  of  the 
Rockies,  Woodbury.  I  hope  I  lose  my  thousand, 


12  Trailin' 

but  if  there  was  any  betting  I'd  stake  ten  to  one 
against  you." 

In  the  meantime,  some  of  the  range-riders 
had  thrown  a  coat  over  the  head  of  the  stallion, 
and  while  he  stood  quivering  with  helpless  rage 
they  flung  a  saddle  on  and  drew  the  cinches 
taut. 

Anthony  Woodbury  was  saying  with  a  smile: 
"Just  for  the  sake  of  the  game,  I'll  take  you  on 
for  a  few  hundred,  Mr.  Werther,  if  you  wish,  but 
I  can't  accept  odds." 

Werther  ran  a  finger  under  his  collar  apparently 
to  facilitate  breathing.  His  eyes,  roving  wildly, 
wandered  over  the  white,  silent  mass  of  faces,  and 
his  glance  picked  out  and  lingered  for  a  moment  on 
the  big-shouldered  figure  of  Drew,  erect  in  his  box. 
At  last  his  glance  came  back  with  an  intent  frown 
to  Woodbury.  Something  in  the  keen  eyes  of  the 
laid  raised  a  responsive  flicker  in  his  own. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!  Just  a  game,  eh?  Lad, 
no  matter  on  what  side  of  the  Rockies  you  were 
born,  I  know  your  breed  and  I  won't  lay  a  penny 
against  your  money.  There's  the  hoss  saddled 
and  there's  the  floor  you'll  land  on.  Go  to  it — 
and  God  help  you!" 

The  other  shook  his  shoulders  back  and  stepped 
toward  the  horse  with  a  peculiarly  unpleasant 


Sporting  Chance  13 

smile,  like  a  pugilist  coming  out  of  his  corner 
toward  an  opponent  of  unknown  prowess. 

He  said:  "Take  off  the  halter." 

One  of  the  men  snapped  viciously  over  his 
shoulder:  "Climb  on  while  the  climbing's  good. 
Cut  out  the  bluff,  partner. " 

The  smile  went  out  on  the  lips  of  Woodbury. 
He  repeated:  "Take  off  the  halter." 

They  stared  at  him,  but  quickly  began  to  fumble 
under  the  coat,  unfastening  the  buckle.  It  re 
quired  a  moment  to  work  off  the  heavy  halter 
without  giving  the  blinded  animal  a  glimpse  of  the 
light;  then  Woodbury  caught  the  bridle  reins 
firmly  just  beneath  the  chin  of  the  horse.  With 
the  other  hand  he  took  the  stirrup  strap  and  raised 
his  foot,  but  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind  about 
this  matter. 

"Take  off  the  blinder,"  he  ordered. 

It  was  Werther  who  interposed  this  time  with: 
"Look  here,  lad,  I  know  this  hoss.  The  minute 
the  Winder's  off  he'll  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  bash 
you  into  the  floor  with  his  forefeet. " 

"Let  him  go,"  growled  one  of  the  cowboys. 
"He's  goin'  to  hell  making  a  gallery  play. " 

But  taking  the  matter  into  his  own  hands  Wood- 
bury  snatched  the  coat  from  the  head  of  the  stal 
lion,  which  snorted  and  reared  up,  mouth  agape, 


H  Trailin' 

ears  flattened  back.  There  was  a  shout  from 
the  man,  not  a  cry  of  dismay,  but  a  ringing  battle 
yell  like  some  ancient  berserker  seeing  the  first 
flash  of  swords  in  the  melee.  He  leaped  forward, 
jerking  down  on  the  bridle  reins  with  all  the  force 
of  his  weight  and  his  spring.  The  horse,  caught 
in  mid-air,  as  it  were,  came  floundering  down  on 
all  fours  again.  Before  he  could  make  another 
move,  Woodbury  caught  the  high  horn  of  the  sad 
dle  and  vaulted  up  to  his  seat.  It  was  gallantly 
done  and  in  response  came  a  great  rustling  from 
the  multitude;  there  was  not  a  spoken  word,  but 
every  man  was  on  his  feet. 

Perhaps  what  followed  took  their  breaths  and 
kept  them  speechless.  The  first  touch  of  his  rider's 
weight  sent  the  stallion  mad,  not  blind  with  fear 
as  most  horses  go,  but  raging  with  a  devilish  cun 
ning  like  that  of  an  insane  man,  a  thing  that  made 
the  blood  run  cold  to  watch.  He  stood  a  moment 
shuddering,  as  if  the  strange  truth  were  slowly 
dawning  on  his  brute  mind ;  then  he  bolted  straight 
for  the  barriers.  Woodbury  braced  himself  and 
lunged  back  on  the  reins,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
tugged  at  the  mooring  cable  of  a  great  ship;  the 
bit  was  in  the  monster's  teeth. 

Then  a  whisper  reached  the  rider,  a  universal 
hushing  of  drawn  breath,  for  the  thousands  were 


Sporting  Chance  15 

tasting  the  first  thrill  and  terror  of  the  combat. 
They  saw  a  picture  of  horse  and  man  crushed 
against  the  barrier.  But  there  was  no  such  stupid 
rage  in  the  mind  of  the  stallion. 

At  the  last  moment  he  swerved  and  raced  close 
beside  the  fence;  some  projecting  edge  caught  the 
trousers  of  Woodbury  and  ripped  away  the  stout 
cloth  from  hip  to  heel.  He  swung  far  to  the  other 
side  and  wrenched  back  the  reins.  With  stiff- 
braced  legs  the  stallion  slid  to  a  halt  that  flung  his 
unbalanced  rider  forward  along  his  neck.  Before 
he  could  straighten  himself  in  the  saddle,  the  horse 
roared  and  came  down  on  rigid  forelegs,  yet  by  a 
miracle  Woodbury  clung,  sprawled  down  the  side 
of  the  monster,  to  be  sure,  but  was  not  quite 
dismounted. 

Another  pitch  of  the  same  nature  would  have 
freed  the  stallion  from  his  rider  beyond  doubt,  but 
he  elected  to  gallop  full  speed  ahead  the  length 
of  the  arena,  and  during  that  time,  Woodbury, 
stunned  though  he  was,  managed  to  drag  himself 
back  into  the  saddle.  The  end  of  the  race  was  a 
leap  into  the  air  that  would  have  cleared  a  five- 
bar  fence,  and  down  pitched  the  fighting  horse  on 
braced  legs  again.  Woodbury 's  chin  snapped  down 
against  his  breast  as  though  he  had  been  struck 
behind  the  head  with  a  heavy  bar,  but  though  bis 


1 6  Trailin' 

brain  was  stunned,  the  fighting  instinct  remained 
strong  in  him  and  when  the  stallion  reared  and 
toppled  back  the  rider  slipped  from  the  saddle  in 
the  nick  of  time. 

Fourteen  hundred  pounds  of  raging  horseflesh 
crashed  into  the  sawdust ;  he  rolled  like  a  cat  to  his 
feet,  but  at  the  same  instant  a  flying  weight  leaped 
through  the  air  and  landed  in  the  saddle.  The 
audience  awoke  to  sound — to  a  dull  roar  of  noise ; 
a  thin  trickle  of  blood  ran  from  Woodbury's  mouth 
and  it  seemed  that  the  mob  knew  it  and  was  yelling 
for  a  death. 

There  followed  a  bewildering  exhibition  of  such 
bucking  that  the  disgruntled  cowboys  forgot  their 
shame  and  shouted  with  joy.  Upon  his  hind  legs 
and  then  down  on  his  forefeet  with  a  sickening 
heartbreaking  jar  the  stallion  rocked;  now  he 
bucked  from  side  to  side;  now  rose  and  whirled 
about  like  a  dancer;  now  toppled  to  the  ground 
and  twisted  again  to  his  feet. 

Still  the  rider  clung.  His  head  rocked  with  the 
ceaseless  jars;  the  red-stained  lips  writhed  back 
and  showed  the  locked  teeth.  Yet,  as  if  he  scorned 
the  struggles  of  the  stallion,  he  brought  into  play 
the  heavy  quirt  which  had  been  handed  him  as  he 
mounted.  Over  neck  and  shoulders  and  tender 
flanks  he  whirled  the  lash;  it  was  not  intelligence 


Sporting  Chance  17 

fighting  brute  strength,  but  one  animal  conquering 
another  and  rejoicing  in  the  battle. 

The  horse  responded,  furiously  he  responded, 
but  still  the  lash  fell,  and  the  bucking  grew  more 
cunning,  perhaps,  but  less  violent.  Yet  to  the 
wildly  cheering  audience  the  fight  seemed  more 
dubious  than  ever.  Then,  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  arena,  the  stallion  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a 
twisting  course  of  bucking  and  stood  with  widely 
braced  legs  and  fallen  head.  Strength  was  left 
in  him,  but  the  cunning,  savage  mind  knew  defeat. 

Once  more  the  quirt  whirled  in  the  air  and  fell 
with  a  resounding  crack,  but  the  stallion  merely 
switched  his  tail  and  started  forward  at  a  clumsy 
stumbling  trot.  The  thunder  of  the  host  was  too 
hoarse  for  applause;  they  saw  a  victory  and  a 
defeat  but  what  they  had  wanted  was  blood,  and 
a  death.  They  had  had  a  promise  and  a  taste; 
now  they  hungered  for  the  reality. 

Woodbury  slipped  from  the  saddle  and  gave  the 
reins  to  Werther.  Already  a  crowd  was  growing 
about  them  of  the  curious  who  had  sprung  over 
the  barriers  and  swarmed  across  the  arena  to  see 
the  conqueror,  for  had  he  not  vindicated  un 
answerably  the  strength  of  the  East  as  compared 
with  that  of  the  West  ?  Boys  shouted  shrilly ;  men 
shouldered  each  other  to  slap  him  on  the  back; 


1 8  Trailin' 

but  Werther  merely  held  forth  the  handful  of 
greenbacks.  The  conqueror  braced  himself  against 
the  saddle  with  a  trembling  hand  and  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  for  me, "  he  said,  "I  ought  to  pay  you — 
ten  times  that  much  for  the  sport — compared  to 
this  polo  is  nothing. " 

"Ah,"  muttered  those  who  overheard,  "polo! 
That  explains  it!" 

"Then  take  the  horse,  "  said  Werther,  "because 
no  one  else  could  ride  him. " 

"And  now  any  one  can  ride  him,  so  I  don't  want 
him,"  answered  Woodbury. 

And  Werther  grinned.  "You're  right,  boy.  I'll 
give  him  to  the  iceman. " 

The  big  grey  man,  William  Drew,  loomed  over 
the  heads  of  the  little  crowd,  and  they  gave  way 
before  him  as  water  divides  under  the  prow  of  a 
ship;  it  was  as  if  he  cast  a  shadow  which  they 
feared  before  him. 

"Help  me  through  this  mob,"  said  Woodbury 
to  Werther,  "and  back  to  my  box.  Devil  take  it, 
my  overcoat  won't  cover  that  leg. " 

Then  on  him  also  fell,  as  it  seemed,  the  approach 
ing  shadow  of  the  grey  man  and  he  looked  up  with 
something  of  a  start  into  the  keen  eyes  of  Drew. 

"Son,"  said  the  big  man,   "you  look  sort  of 


Sporting  Chance  19 

familiar  to  me.  I'm  asking  your  pardon,  but  who 
was  your  mother?'* 

The  eyes  of  young  Woodbury  narrowed  and  the 
two  stood  considering  each  other  gravely  for  a 
long  moment. 

"I  never  saw  her,"  he  said  at  last,  and  then 
turned  with  a  frown  to  work  his  way  through  the 
crowd  and  back  to  his  box. 

The  tall  man  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
started  in  pursuit,  but  the  mob  intervened.  He 
turned  back  to  Werther. 

"Did  you  get  his  name?"  he  asked. 

"Fine  bit  of  riding  he  showed,  eh?"  cried  the 
little  man,  "and  turned  down  my  thousand  as 
cool  as  you  please.  I  tell  you,  Drew,  there's  some 
flint  in  the  Easterners  after  all!" 

"Damn  the  Easterners.    What's  his  name?" 

' '  Woodbury.    Anthony  Woodbury. ' ' 

"Woodbury?" 

"What's  wrong  with  that  name?" 

"Nothing.    Only  I'm  a  bit  surprised. " 

And  he  frowned  with  a  puzzled,  wistful  expres 
sion,  staring  straight  ahead  like  a  man  striving  to 
solve  a  great  riddle. 


CHAPTER  III 

SOCIAL    SUICIDE 

AT  his  box,  Woodbury  stopped  only  to  huddle 
into  his  coat  and  overcoat  and  pull  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes.  Then  he  hurried  on  toward  an  exit, 
but  even  this  slight  delay  brought  the  reporters 
up  with  him.  They  had  scented  news  as  the  eagle 
sights  prey  far  below,  and  then  swooped  down  on 
him.  He  continued  his  flight  shaking  off  their 
harrying  questions,  but  they  kept  up  the  running 
fight  and  at  the  door  one  of  them  reached  his  side 
with:  "It's  Mr.  Woodbury  of  the  Westfall  Polo 
Club,  son  of  Mr.  John  Woodbury  of  Anson  Place?" 

Anthony  Woodbury  groaned  with  dismay  and 
clutched  the  grinning  reporter  by  the  arm. 

"Come  with  me!" 

Prospects  of  a  scoop  of  a  sizable  nature  bright 
ened  the  eyes  of  the  reporter.  He  followed  in  all 
haste,  and  the  other  news-gatherers,  in  obedience 
to  the  exacting,  unspoken  laws  of  their  craft,  stood 
back  and  followed  the  flight  with  grumbling  envy. 

20 


Social  Suicide  21 

On  Twenty-Sixth  Street,  a  little  from  the  corner 
of  Madison  Avenue,  stood  a  big  touring  car  with 
the  chauffeur  waiting  in  the  front  seat.  There 
were  still  some  followers  from  the  Garden. 

Woodbury  jumped  into  the  back  seat,  drew  the 
reporter  after  him,  and  called:  " Start  ahead, 
Maclaren — drive  anywhere,  but  get  moving." 

"Now,  sir,"  turning  to  the  reporter  as  the 
engine  commenced  to  hum,  "what's  your  name?" 

"Bantry." 

"Ban try?    Glad  to  know  you." 

He  shook  hands. 

"You  know  me?" 

"Certainly.  I  cover  sports  all  the  way  from 
polo  to  golf.  Anthony  Woodbury — Westfall  Polo 
Club — then  golf,  tennis,  trap  shooting " 

"Enough!"  groaned  the  victim.  "Now  look 
here,  Bantry,  you  have  me  dead  to  rights — got  me 
with  the  goods,  so  to  speak,  haven't  you?" 

"It  was  a  great  bit  of  work;  ought  to  make  a 
first-page  story." 

And  the  other  groaned  again.  "I  know — son  of 
millionaire  rides  unbroken  horse  in  Wild  West 
show — and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But,  good  Lord, 
man,  think  what  it  will  mean  to  me?" 

"Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  is  it?  Your  father '11 
be  proud  of  you." 


22  Trailin' 

Woodbury  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Any  man  would  be. " 

' '  But  the  notoriety,  man !  It  would  kill  me  with 
a  lot  of  people  as  thoroughly  as  if  I'd  put  the 
muzzle  of  a  gun  in  my  mouth  and  pulled  the 
trigger." 

"H-m!"  muttered  the  reporter,  "sort  of  social 
suicide,  all  right.  But  it's  news,  Mr.  Woodbury, 
and  the  editor " 

"Expects  you  to  write  as  much  as  the  rest  of 
the  papers  print — and  none  of  the  other  reporters 
know  me." 

"One  or  two  of  them  might  have. " 

"  But  my  dear  fellow — won't  you  take  a  chance  ?" 

Bantry  made  a  wry  face. 

"Madison  Square  Garden, "  went  on  Woodbury 
bitterly.  "Ten  thousand  people  looking  on — gad, 
man,  it's  awful." 

"Why'd  you  do  it,  then?" 

"Couldn't  help  it,  Bantry.  By  Jove,  when  that 
wicked  devil  of  a  horse  came  at  my  box  and  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  red  demon  in  his  eyes — 
why,  man,  I  simply  had  to  get  down  and  try  my 
luck.  Ever  play  football  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  quite  a  while  ago. " 

"Then  you  know  how  it  is  when  you're  in  the 


Social  Suicide  23 

bleachers  and  the  whistle  blows  for  the  game  to 
begin.  That's  the  way  it  was  with  me.  I  wanted 
to  climb  down  into  the  field — and  I  did.  Once 
started,  I  couldn't  stop  until  I'd  made  a  complete 
ass  of  myself  in  the  most  spectacular  style.  Now, 
Bantry,  I  appeal  to  you  for  the  sake  of  your  old 
football  days,  don't  show  me  up — keep  my  name 
quiet." 

'Td  like  to — damned  if  I  wouldn't — but — a 
scoop " 

Anthony  Woodbury  considered  his  companion 
with  a  strange  yearning.  It  might  have  been  to 
take  him  by  the  throat;  it  might  have  been  some 
gentler  motive,  but  his  hand  stole  at  last  toward 
an  inner  coat  pocket. 

He  said :  ' '  I  know  times  are  a  bit  lean  now  and 
then  in  your  game,  Bantry.  I  wonder  if  you  could 
use  a  bit  of  the  long  green?  Just  now  I'm  very 
flush,  and " 

He  produced  a  thickly  stuffed  bill-fold,  but 
Bantry  smiled  and  touched  Woodbury's  arm. 

"Couldn't  possibly,  you  know." 

He  considered  a  moment  and  then,  with  a  smile: 
' '  It's  a  bit  awkward  for  both  of  us,  isn't  it  ?  Suppose 
I  keep  your  name  under  my  hat  and  you  give  me  a 
few  little  inside  tips  now  and  then  on  polo  news, 
and  that  sort  of  thing?" 


24  Trailin' 

"Here's  my  hand  on  it.  You've  no  idea  what  a 
load  you  take  off  my  mind. " 

"We've  circled  about  and  are  pretty  close  to 
the  Garden  again.  Could  you  let  me  out  here?" 

The  car  rolled  to  an  easy  stop  and  the  reporter 
stepped  out. 

' '  I  '11  forget  every  thing  you  wish,  Mr.  Woodbury. " 

"It's  an  honour  to  have  met  you,  sir.  Use  me 
whenever  you  can.  Good  night. " 

To  the  chauffeur  he  said:  "Home,  and  make  it 
fast." 

They  passed  up  Lexington  with  Maclaren 
"making  it  fast,"  so  that  the  big  car  was  con 
tinually  nosing  its  way  around  the  machines  in 
front  with  much  honking  of  the  horn.  At  Fifty- 
Ninth  Street  they  turned  across  to  the  bridge  and 
hummed  softly  across  the  black,  shimmering 
waters  of  the  East  River ;  by  the  time  they  reached 
Brooklyn  a  fine  mist  was  beginning  to  fall,  blur 
ring  the  wind-shield,  and  Maclaren  slowed  up 
perceptibly,  so  that  before  they  passed  the  heart 
of  the  city,  Woodbury  leaned  forward  and  said: 
"What's  the  matter,  Maclaren?" 

"Wet  streets — no  chains — this  wind-shield  is 
pretty  hard  to  see  through. " 

"Stop  her,  then.  I'll  take  the  wheel  the  rest  of 
the  way.  Want  to  travel  a  bit  to-night. " 


Social  Suicide  25 

The  chauffeur,  as  if  this  exchange  were  some 
thing  he  had  been  expecting,  made  no  demur,  and 
a  moment  later,  with  Woodbury  at  the  wheel,  the 
motor  began  to  hum  again  in  a  gradually  increasing 
crescendo.  Two  or  three  motor-police  glanced 
after  the  car  as  it  snapped  about  corners  with  an 
ominous  skid  and  straightened  out,  whining,  on 
the  new  street;  but  in  each  case,  having  made  a 
comfortable  number  of  arrests  that  day,  they  had 
little  heart  for  the  pursuit  of  the  grey  monster 
through  that  chill  mist. 

Past  Brooklyn,  with  a  country  road  before  them, 
Woodbury  cut  out  the  muffler  and  the  car  sprang 
forward  with  a  roar.  A  gust  of  increasing  wind 
whipped  back  to  Maclaren,  for  the  wind-shield  had 
been  opened  so  that  the  driver  need  not  look 
through  the  dripping  glass  and  mingling  with  the 
wet  gale  were  snatches  of  singing. 

The  chauffeur,  partly  in  understanding  and 
partly  from  anxiety,  apparently,  caught  the  side 
of  the  seat  in  a  firm  grip  and  leaned  forward  to 
break  the  jar  when  they  struck  rough  places. 
Around  an  elbow  turn  they  went  with  one  warning 
scream  of  the  Klaxon,  skidded  horribly  at  the 
sharp  angle  of  the  curve,  and  missed  by  inches  a 
car  from  the  opposite  direction. 

They  swept  on  with  the  startled  yell  of  the  other 


26  Trailin' 

party  ringing  after  them,  drowned  at  once  by  the 
crackling  of  the  exhaust.  Maclaren  raised  a  furtive 
hand  to  wipe  from  his  forehead  a  moisture  which 
was  not  altogether  rain,  but  immediately  grasped 
the  side  of  the  seat  again.  Straight  ahead  the  road 
swung  up  to  meet  a  bridge  and  dropped  sharply 
away  from  it  on  the  further  side.  Maclaren 
groaned  but  the  sound  was  lost  in  the  increasing 
roar  of  the  exhaust. 

They  barely  touched  that  bridge  and  shot  off 
into  space  on  the  other  side  like  a  hurdler  clearing 
an  obstacle.  With  a  creak  and  a  thud  the  big  car 
landed,  reeled  drunkenly,  and  straightened  out  in 
earnest,  Maclaren  craned  his  head  to  see  the  speedo 
meter,  but  had  not  the  heart  to  look;  he  began  to 
curse  softly,  steadily. 

When  the  muffler  went  on  again  and  the  motor 
was  reduced  to  a  loud,  angry  humming,  Woodbury 
caught  a  few  phrases  of  those  solemn  imprecations. 
He  grinned  into  the  black  heart  of  the  night, 
streaked  with  lines  of  grey  where  therein  entered 
the  halo  of  the  headlights,  and  then  swung  the 
car  through  an  open,  iron  gate.  The  motor  fell  to  a 
drowsily  contented  murmur  that  blended  with  the 
cool  swishing  of  the  tires  on  wet  gravel. 

"Maclaren,"  said  the  other,  as  he  stopped  in 
front  of  the  garage,  "if  everyone  was  as  good  a 


Social  Suicide  27 

passenger  as  you  I'd  enjoy  motoring;  but  after  all, 
a  car  can't  act  up  like  a  horse."  He  concluded 
gloomily:  "There's  no  fight  in  it." 

And  he  started  toward  the  house,  but  Maclaren, 
staring  after  the  departing  figure,  muttered: 
"There's  only  one  sort  that's  worse  than  a  damn 
fool,  and  that's  a  young  one." 

It  was  through  a  door  opening  off  the  veranda 
that  Anthony  entered  the  house,  stealthily  as  a 
burglar,  and  with  the  same  nervous  apprehension. 
Before  him  stretched  a  wide  hall,  dimly  illumined 
by  a  single  light  which  splashed  on  the  Italian 
table  and  went  glimmering  across  the  floor.  Across 
the  hall  was  his  destination — the  broad  balustraded 
staircase,  which  swept  grandly  up  to  the  second 
floor.  Toward  this  he  tiptoed  steadying  himself 
with  one  hand  against  the  wall.  Almost  to  his 
goal,  he  heard  a  muffled  footfall  and  shrank 
against  the  wall  with  a  catlike  agility,  but,  though 
the  shadow  fell  steep  and  gloomy  there,  luck  was 
against  him. 

A  middle-aged  servant  of  solemn  port,,  serene 
with  the  twofold  dignity  of  double  chin  and  bald 
head,  paused  at  the  table  in  his  progress  across 
the  room,  and  swept  the  apartment  with  the  judi 
cial  eye  of  one  who  knows  that  everything  is  as 
it  should  be  but  will  not  trust  even  the  silence  of 


28  Trailin' 

night.  So  that  bland  blue  eye  struck  first  on  the 
faintly  shining  top  hat  of  Anthony,  ran  down  his 
overcoat,  and  lingered  in  gloomy  dismay  on  the 
telltale  streak  of  white  where  the  trouser  leg 
should  have  been. 

What  he  thought  not  even  another  CEdipus 
could  have  conjectured.  The  young  master  very 
obviously  did  not  wish  to  be  observed,  and  in  such 
times  Peters  at  could  be  blinder  than  the  bat  noon 
day  and  more  secret  than  the  River  Styx.  He 
turned  away,  unhurried,  the  fold  of  that  double 
chin  a  little  more  pronounced  over  the  severe 
correctness  of  his  collar. 

A  very  sibilant  whisper  pursued  him.  He 
stopped  again,  still  without  haste,  and  turned  not 
directly  toward  Anthony,  but  at  a  discreet  angle, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  firmly  upon  the  ceiling. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    SESSION    OF    CHAT 

THE  whisper  grew  distinct  in  words. 

"Peters,  you  old  numskull,  come  here!" 

The  approach  of  Peters  was  something  like  the 
sidewise  waddle  of  a  very  aged  crab.  He  looked  to 
the  north,  but  ,his  feet  carried  him  to  the  east. 
That  he  was  much  moved  was  attested  by  the 
colour  which  had  mounted  even  to  the  gleaming 
expanse  of  that  nobly  bald  head. 

"Yes,  Master  Anthony — I  mean  Mr.  Anthony? " 

He  set  his  teeth  at  the  faux  pas. 

"Peters,  look  at  me.  Confound  it,  I  haven't 
murdered  any  one.  Are  you  busy?" 

It  required  whole  seconds  for  the  eyes  to  wheel 
round  upon  Anthony,  and  they  were  immediately 
debased  from  the  telltale  white  of  that  leg  to  the 
floor. 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  come  up  with  me  and  help  me  change. 
Quick!" 

29 


30  Trailin' 

He  turned  and  fled  noiselessly  up  the  great 
stairs,  with  Peters  panting  behind.  Anthony's 
overcoat  was  off  before  he  had  fairly  entered  his 
room  and  his  coat  and  vest  flopped  through  the 
air  as  Peters  shut  the  door.  Whatever  the  old 
servant  lacked  in  agility  he  made  up  in  certain 
knowledge ;  as  he  laid  out  a  fresh  tuxedo,  Anthony 
changed  with  the  speed  of  one  pursued.  The 
conversation  was  spasmodic  to  a  degree. 

"Where's  father?    Waiting  in  the  library?" 

"Yes.    Reading,  sir. " 

"Had  a  mix-up — bully  time,  though — damn 
this  collar!  Peters,  I  wish  you'd  been  there — 
where's  those  trousers?  Rub  some  of  the  crease 
out  of  'em — they  must  look  a  little  worn. " 

He  stood  at  last  completely  dressed  while  Peters 
looked  on  with  a  shining  eye  and  a  smile  which  in 
a  younger  man  would  have  suggested  many  things. 

1 '  How  is  it  ?    Will  I  pass  father  this  way  ? ' ' 

"I  hope  so,  sir." 

"But  you  don't  think  so?" 

"It's  hard  to  deceive  him. " 

"Confound  it!  Don't  I  know?  Well,  here's 
for  a  try.  Soft-foot  it  down  stairs.  I'll  go  after 
you  and  bang  the  door.  Then  you  say  good- 
evening  in  a  loud  voice  and  I'll  go  into  the  library. 
How's  that?" 


A  Session  of  Chat  31 

"Very  good — your  coat  over  your  arm — so! 
Just  ruffle  your  hair  a  bit,  sir — now  you  should 
do  very  nicely." 

At  the  door:  "Go  first,  Peters — first,  man,  and 
hurry,  but  watch  those  big  feet  of  yours.  If  you 
make  a  noise  on  the  stairs  I'm  done  with  you. " 

The  noiselessness  of  the  descending  feet  was 
safe  enough,  but  not  so  safe  was  the  chuckling  of 
Peters  for,  though  he  fought  against  the  threaten 
ing  explosion,  it  rumbled  like  the  roll  of  approach 
ing  thunder.  In  the  hall  below,  Anthony  opened 
and  slammed  the  door. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Anthony,"  said  Peters 
loudly,  too  loudly. 

1 '  Evening,  Peters.    Where's  father  ? ' ' 

"In  the  library,  sir.    Shall  I  take  your  coat?" 

"I'll  carry  it  up  to  my  room  when  I  go.  That's 
all." 

He  opened  the  door  to  the  library  and  entered 
with  a  hope  that  his  father  would  not  be  facing 
him,  but  he  found  that  John  Woodbury  was  not 
even  reading.  He  sat  by  the  big  fire-place  smoking 
a  pipe  which  he  now  removed  slowly  from  his 
teeth. 

"Hello,  Anthony." 

"Good-evening,  sir." 

He  rose  to  shake  hands  with  his  son ;  they  might 


32  Trailin' 

have  been  friends  meeting  after  a  separation  so 
long  that  they  were  compelled  to  be  formal,  and 
as  Anthony  turned  to  lay  down  his  hat  and  coat 
he  knew  that  the  keen  grey  eyes  studied  him  care 
fully  from  head  to  foot. 

"Take  this  chair." 

"Why,  sir,  wouldn't  dream  of  disturbing  you." 

"Not  a  bit.  I  want  you  to  try  it;  just  a  trifle 
too  narrow  for  me. " 

John  Woodbury  rose  and  gestured  his  son  to  the 
chair  he  had  been  occupying.  Anthony  hesitated, 
but  then,  like  one  who  obeys  first  and  thinks  after 
ward,  seated  himself  as  directed. 

' '  Mighty  comfortable,  sir. ' ' 

The  big  man  stood  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  him,  peering  down  under  shaggy,  iron- 
grey  brows. 

' '  I  thought  it  would  be.  I  designed  it  myself  for 
you  and  I  had  a  pretty  bad  time  getting  it  made." 

He  stepped  to  one  side. 

"Hits  you  pretty  well  under  the  knees,  doesn't 
it?  Yes,  it's  deeper  than  most. " 

"A  perfect  fit,  father,  and  mighty  thoughtful 
of  you." 

"H-m,"  rumbled  John  Woodbury,  and  looked 
about  like  one  who  has  forgotten  something. 
"What  about  a  glass  of  Scotch?" 


A  Session  of  Chat  33 

"Nothing,  thank  you — I — in  fact  I'm  not  very 
strong  for  the  stuff." 

The  rough  brows  rose  a  trifle  and  fell. 

"  No  ?    But  isn't  it  usual  ?    Better  have  a  go. " 

Once  more  there  was  that  slight  touch  of  hesi 
tancy,  as  if  the  son  were  not  quite  sure  of  the 
father  and  wished  to  make  every  concession. 

" Certainly,  if  it'll  make  you  easier." 

There  was  an  instant  softening  of  the  hard  lines 
of  the  elder  Woodbury's  face,  as  though  some 
favour  of  import  had  been  done  him.  He  touched 
a  bell-cord  and  lowered  himself  with  a  little  grunt 
of  relaxation  into  a  chair.  The  chair  was  stoutly 
built,  but  it  groaned  a  little  under  the  weight  of 
the  mighty  frame  it  received.  He  leaned  back 
and  in  his  face  was  a  light  which  came  not  alto 
gether  from  the  comfortable  glow  of  the  fire. 

And  when  the  servant  appeared  the  big  man 
ordered :  ' '  Scotch  and  seltzer  and  one  glass  with  a 
pitcher  of  ice." 

"Aren't  you  taking  anything,  sir?"  asked 
Anthony. 

"Who,  me?  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  Why,  let  me 
see — bring  me  a  pitcher  of  beer."  He  added  as 
the  servant  disappeared:  "Never  could  get  a 
taste  for  Scotch,  and  rye  doesn't  seem  to  be — er — 
good  form.  Eh,  Anthony  ? " 


34  Trailin1 

"Nonsense,"  frowned  the  son,  "haven't  you  a 
right  to  be  comfortable  in  your  own  house?" 

"Come,  come!"  rumbled  John  Woodbury. 
"A  young  fellow  in  your  position  can't  have  a  boor 
for  a  father,  eh?" 

It  was  apparently  an  old  argument  between 
them,  for  Anthony  stared  gloomily  at  the  fire, 
making  no  attempt  to  reply;  and  he  glanced  up  in 
relief  when  the  servant  entered  with  the  liquor. 
John  Woodbury,  however,  returned  to  the  charge 
as  soon  as  they  were  left  alone  again,  saying :  "As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  about  to  set  you  up  in  an 
establishment  of  your  own  in  New  York."  He 
made  a  vastly  inclusive  gesture.  "Everything 
done  up  brown — old  house — high-class  interior 
decorator,  to  get  you  started  with  a  splash. " 

4 'Are  you  tired  of  Long  Island?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  the  city,  but  you  will. " 

"And  my  work?" 

"A  gentleman  of  the  class  you'll  be  in  can't 
callous  his  hands  with  work.  I  spent  my  life 
making  money;  you  can  use  your  life  throwing  it 
away — like  a  gentleman.  But" — he  reached  out 
at  this  point  and  smashed  a  burly  fist  into  a  palm 
hardly  less  hard — "but  I'll  be  damned,  Anthony, 
if  I'll  let  you  stay  here  in  Long  Island  wasting  your 
time  riding  the  wildest  horses  you  can  get  and 


A  Session  of  Chat  35 

practising  with  an  infernal  revolver.  What  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  musing.  "Of 
course  the  days  of  revolvers  are  past,  but  I  love 
the  feel  of  the  butt  against  my  palm — I  love  the 
kick  of  the  barrel  tossing  up — I  love  the  balance; 
and  when  I  have  a  six-shooter  in  my  hand,  sir,  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  six  lives.  Odd,  isn't  it  ? "  He  grew 
excited  as  he  talked,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
dancing  points  of  fire.  "And  I'll  tell  you  this,  sir: 
I'd  rather  be  out  in  the  country  where  men  still 
wear  guns,  where  the  sky  isn't  stained  with  filthy 
coal  smoke,  where  there's  an  horizon  wide  enough 
to  breathe  in,  where  there's  man-talk  instead  of 
this  damned  chatter  over  tea-cups " 

"Stop!"  cried  John  Woodbury,  and  leaned  for 
ward,  "no  matter  what  fool  ideas  you  get  into  your 
head — you're  going  to  be  a  gentleman!" 

The  swaying  forward  of  that  mighty  body,  the 
outward  thrust  of  the  jaws,  the  ring  of  the  voice, 
was  like  the  crashing  of  an  ax  when  armoured  men 
meet  in  battle.  The  flicker  in  the  eyes  of  Anthony 
was  the  rapier  which  swerves  from  the  ax  and  then 
leaps  at  the  heart.  For  a  critical  second  their 
glances  crossed  and  then  the  habit  of  obedience 
conquered. 

"I  suppose  you  know,  sir.*' 


36  Trailin' 

The  father  stared  gloomily  at  the  floor. 

"  You're  sort  of  mad,  Anthony?" 

Perhaps  there  was  nothing  more  typical  of 
Anthony  than  that  he  never  frowned,  no  matter 
how  angered  he  might  be.  Now  the  cold  light 
passed  from  his  eyes.  He  rose  and  passed  behind 
the  chair  of  the  elder  man,  dropping  a  hand  upon 
those  massive  shoulders. 

"Angry  with  myself,  sir,  that  I  should  so  nearly 
fall  out  with  the  finest  father  that  walks  the  earth." 

The  eyes  of  the  grey  man  half  closed  and  a 
semblance  of  a  smile  touched  those  stiff,  stern 
lips;  one  of  the  great  work-broken  hands  went  up 
and  rested  on  the  fingers  of  his  son. 

"And  there'll  be  no  more  of  this  infernal  Western 
nonsense  that  you're  always  reverting  to?  No 
more  of  this  horse-and-gun-and-hell-bent-away 
stuff?" 

"I  suppose  not, "  said  Anthony  heavily. 

"Well,  Anthony,  sit  down  and  tell  me  about  to 
night." 

The  son  obeyed,  and  finally  said,  with  difficulty : 
"I  didn't  go  to  the  Morrison  supper. " 

A  sudden  cloud  of  white  rose  from  the  bowl  of 
Woodbury's  pipe. 

"But  I  thought :> 

"That  it  was  a  big  event  ?    It  was — a  fine  thing 


A  Session  of  Chat  37 

for  me  to  get  a  bid  to ;  but  I  went  to  the  Wild  West 
show  instead.  Sir,  I  know  it  was  childish,  but — I 
couldn't  help  it!  I  saw  the  posters;  I  thought  of 
the  horse-breaking,  the  guns,  the  swing  and  snap 
and  dash  of  galloping  men,  the  taint  of  sweating 
horses — and  by  God,  sir,  I  couldn't  stay  away! 
Are  you  angry?" 

It  was  more  than  anger ;  it  was  almost  fear  that 
widened  the  eye  of  Woodbury  as  he  stared  at  his 
son.  He  said  at  last,  controlling  himself:  "But 
I  have  your  word;  you've  given  up  the  thought  of 
this  Western  life?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Anthony,  with  a  touch  of 
despair,  ' '  I  have  given  it  up,  I  suppose.  But,  oh, 
sir — "  He  stopped,  hopeless. 

"And  what  else  happened?" 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of. " 

"  After  you  come  home  you  don't  usually  change 
your  clothes  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  sitting  with 
me  here. " 

"Nothing  escapes  you,  does  it?"  muttered 
Anthony. 

"In  your  set,  Anthony,  that's  what  they'd  call 
an  improper  question. " 

"I  could  ask  you  any  number  of  questions,  sir, 
for  that  matter." 

"Well?" 


38  Trailin' 

"That  room  over  there,  for  instance,  which  you 
always  keep  locked.  Am  I  never  to  have  a  look 
at  it?" 

He  indicated  a  door  which  opened  from  the 
library. 

"I  hope  not." 

1 '  You  say  that  with  a  good  deal  of  feeling.  But 
there's  one  thing  more  that  I  have  a  right  to  hear 
about.  My  mother!  Why  do  you  never  tell  me 
of  her?" 

The  big  man  stirred  and  the  chair  groaned 
beneath  him. 

"Because  it  tortures  me  to  speak  of  her,  An 
thony,"  said  the  husky  voice.  "Tortures  me, 
lad!" 

"  I  let  the  locked  room  go, ' '  said  Anthony  firmly, 
"but  my  mother — she  is  different.  Why,  sir,  I 
don't  even  know  how  she  looked!  Dad,  it's  my 
right!" 

"Is  it?  By  God,  you  have  a  right  to  know 
exactly  what  I  choose  to  tell  you — no  more!" 

He  rose,  strode  across  the  room  with  ponderous 
steps,  drew  aside  the  curtains  which  covered  the 
view  of  the  garden  below,  and  stared  for  a  time 
into  the  night.  When  he  turned  he  found  that 
Anthony  had  risen — a  slender,  erect  figure.  His 
voice  was  as  quiet  as  his  anger,  but  an  inward 


A  Session  of  Chat  39 

quality  made  it  as  thrilling  as  the  hoarse  boom  of 
his  father. 

"On  that  point  I  stick.  I  must  know  something 
about  her." 

"Must?" 

"In  spite  of  your  anger.  That  locked  room  is 
yours;  this  house  and  everything  in  it  is  yours; 
but  my  mother — she  was  as  much  mine  as  yours, 
and  I'll  hear  more  about  her — who  she  was,  what 
she  looked  like,  where  she  lived " 

The  sharply  indrawn  breath  of  John  Woodbury 
cut  him  short. 

"She  died  in  giving  birth  to  you,  Anthony. " 

' '  Dear  God !    She  died  for  me  ? " 

And  in  the  silence  which  came  over  the  two  men 
it  seemed  as  if  another  presence  were  in  the  room. 
John  Woodbury  stood  at  the  fire-place  with  bowed 
head,  and  Anthony  shaded  his  eyes  and  stared  at 
the  floor  until  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  other  and 
went  gently  to  him. 

He  said:  "I'm  sorrier  than  a  lot  of  words  could 
tell  you.  Will  you  sit  down,  sir,  and  let  me  tell 
you  how  I  came  to  press  home  the  question?" 

"If  you  want  to  have  it  that  way. " 

They  resumed  their  chairs. 


CHAPTER  V 

ANTHONY   IS   LEFT   IN   THE   DARK 

"IT  will  explain  why  I  changed  my  clothes 
after  I  came  home.  You  see,  toward  the  end  of  the 
show  a  lot  of  the  cowboys  rode  in.  The  ringmaster 
was  announcing  that  they  could  ride  anything  that 
walked  on  four  feet  and  wore  a  skin,  when  up 
jumped  an  oldish  fellow  in  a  box  opposite  mine 
and  shouted  that  he  had  a  horse  which  none  of 
them  could  mount.  He  offered  five  hundred  dollars 
to  the  man  who  could  back  him;  and  made  it  good 
by  going  out  of  the  building  and  coming  back 
inside  of  five  minutes  with  two  men  leading  a 
great  stallion,  the  ugliest  piece  of  horseflesh  I've 
ever  seen. 

"As  they  worked  the  brute  down  the  arena,  it 
caught  sight  of  my  white  shirt,  I  suppose,  for  it 
made  a  dive  at  me,  reared  up,  and  smashed  its  fore- 
hoofs  against  the  barrier.  By  Jove,  a  regular  man- 
eater!  Brought  my  heart  into  my  mouth  to  see 
the  big  devil  raging,  and  I  began  to  yearn  to  get 

40 


Anthony  is  Left  in  the  Dark     41 

astride  him  and  to — well,  just  fight  to  see  which  of 
us  would  come  out  on  top.  You  know  ? " 

The  big  man  moistened  his  lips;  he  was  strangely 
excited. 

"So  you  climbed  into  the  arena  and  rode  the 
horse?" 

"Exactly!  I  knew  you'd  understand!  After 
I'd  ridden  the  horse  to  a  standstill  and  climbed 
off,  a  good  many  people  gathered  around  me.  One 
of  them  was  a  big  man,  about  your  size.  In  fact, 
now  that  I  look  back  at  it,  he  was  a  good  deal  like 
you  in  more  ways  than  one;  looked  as  if  time  had 
hardened  him  without  making  him  brittle.  He 
came  to  me  and  said:  'Excuse  me,  son,  but  you 
look  sort  of  familiar  to  me.  Mind  telling  me  who 
your  mother  was  ? '  What  could  I  answer  to  a ' ' 

A  shadow  fell  across  Anthony  from  the  rising 
height  of  his  father.  As  he  looked  up  he  saw  John 
Woodbury  glance  sharply,  first  toward  the  French 
windows  and  then  at  the  door  of  the  secret  room. 

4 'Was  that  all,  Anthony?" 

"Yes,  about  all." 

"I  want  to  be  alone. " 

The  habit  of  automatic  obedience  made  Anthony 
rise  in  spite  of  the  questions  which  were  storming 
at  his  lips. 

"Good-night,  sir." 


42  Trailin' 

" Good-night,  my  boy." 

At  the  door  the  harsh  voice  of  his  father  over 
took  him. 

"Before  you  leave  the  house  again,  see  me, 
Anthony. " 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  closed  the  door  softly,  as  one  deep  in  thought, 
and  stood  for  a  time  without  moving.  Because  a 
man  had  asked  him  who  his  mother  was,  he  was 
under  orders  not  to  leave  the  house.  While  he 
stood,  he  heard  a  faint  click  of  a  snapping  lock 
within  the  library  and  knew  that  John  Woodbury 
had  entered  the  secret  room. 

In  his  own  bedroom  he  undressed  slowly  and 
afterward  stood  for  a  long  time  under  the  shower, 
rubbing  himself  down  with  the  care  of  an  athlete, 
thumbing  the  soreness  of  the  wild  ride  out  of  the 
lean,  sinewy  muscles,  for  his  was  a  made  strength 
built  up  in  the  gymnasium  and  used  on  the  wrestl 
ing  mat,  the  cinder  path,  and  the  football  field. 
Drying  himself  with  a  rough  towel  that  whipped 
the  pink  into  his  skin,  he  looked  down  over  his 
corded,  slender  limbs,  remembered  the  thick  arms 
and  Herculean  torso  of  John  Woodbury,  and 
wondered. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  wrapped  in  a  bath 
robe,  and  pondered.  Stroke  by  stroke  he  built  the 


Anthony  is  Left  in  the  Dark     43 

picture  of  that  dead  mother,  like  a  painter  who 
jots  down  the  first  sketch  of  a  large  composition. 
John  Woodbury,  vast,  blond,  grey-eyed,  had  given 
him  few  of  his  physical  traits.  But  then  he  had 
often  heard  that  the  son  usually  resembled  the 
mother.  She  must  have  been  dark,  slender,  a  frail 
wife  for  such  a  giant;  but  perhaps  she  had  a 
strength  of  spirit  which  made  her  his  mate. 

As  the  picture  drew  out  more  clearly  in  the  mind 
of  Anthony,  he  turned  from  the  lighted  room, 
threw  open  a  window,  and  leaned  out  to  breathe 
the  calm,  damp  air  of  night. 

It  was  infinitely  cool,  infinitely  fresh.  To  his 
left  a  row  of  young  trees  darted  their  slender  tops 
at  the  sky  like  shadowy  spearheads.  The  smell  of 
wet  leaves  and  the  wet  grass  beneath  rose  up  to 
him.  To  the  right,  for  his  own  room  stood  in  a 
wing  of  the  mansion,  the  house  shouldered  its  way 
into  the  gloom,  a  solemn,  grey  shadow,  netted  in  a 
black  tracery  of  climbing  vine.  In  all  the  stretch 
of  wall  only  two  windows  were  lighted,  and  those 
yellow  squares,  he  knew,  belonged  to  his  father. 
He  had  left  the  secret  room,  therefore. 

As  he  watched,  a  shadow  brushed  slowly  across 
one  of  the  drawn  shades,  swept  the  second,  and 
returned  at  once  in  the  opposite  direction.  Back 
and  forth,  back  and  forth,  that  shadow  moved,  and 


44  Trailin' 

as  his  eye  grew  accustomed  to  watching,  he  caught 
quite  clearly  the  curve  of  the  shoulders  and  the 
forward  droop  of  the  head. 

It  was  not  until  then  that  the  first  alarm  came 
to  Anthony,  for  he  knew  that  the  footsteps  of  the 
big  grey  man  were  dogged  by  fear.  He  could  no 
more  conceive  it  than  he  could  imagine  noon  and 
midnight  in  conjunction,  and  feeling  as  guilty  as 
if  he  had  played  the  part  of  an  eavesdropper  he 
turned  away,  snapped  off  the  lights,  and  slipped 
into  bed. 

The  pleasant  warmth  of  sleep  would  not  come. 
In  its  place  the  images  of  the  day  filed  past  him 
like  the  dance  of  figures  on  a  motion  picture  screen, 
and  always,  like  the  repeated  entrance  of  the  hero, 
the  other  images  grew  small  and  dim.  He  saw 
again  the  burly  stranger  wading  through  the  crowd 
in  the  arena,  shaking  off  the  packed  mob  as  the 
prow  of  a  stately  ship  shakes  off  the  water,  tc 
either  side. 

At  length  he  started  out  of  bed  and  glanced 
through  the  window.  The  moving  shadow  still 
swept  across  the  lighted  shades  of  his  father's 
room;  so  he  donned  bathrobe  and  slippers  and 
went  down  the  long  hall.  At  the  door  he  did  not 
stop  to  knock,  for  he  was  too  deeply  concerned  by 
this  time  to  pay  any  heed  to  convention.  He 


Anthony  is  Left  in  the  Dark     45 

grasped  the  knob  and  threw  the  door  wide  open. 
What  happened  then  was  so  sudden  that  he  could 
not  be  sure  afterward  what  he  had  seen.  He  was 
certain  that  the  door  opened  on  a  lighted  room,  yet 
before  he  could  step  in  the  lights  were  snapped 
out. 

He  was  staring  into  a  deep  void  of  night ;  and  a 
silence  came  about  him  like  a  whisper.  Out  of  that 
silence  he  thought  after  a  second  that  he  caught 
the  sound  of  a  hurried  breathing,  louder  and  louder, 
as  though  someone  were  creeping  upon  him.  He 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  in  a  slight  panic,  but 
down  the  grey  hall  on  either  side  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen.  Once  more  he  looked  back  into  the 
solemn  room,  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  changed  his 
mind,  and  closed  the  door  again. 

Yet  when  he  looked  down  again  from  his  own 
room  the  lights  shone  once  more  on  the  shades  of 
his  father's  windows.  Past  them  brushed  the 
shadow  of  the  pacing  man,  up  and  down,  up  and 
down.  He  turned  his  eyes  away  to  the  jagged  tops 
of  the  young  trees,  to  the  glimpses  of  dark  fields 
beyond  them,  and  inhaled  the  scent  of  the  wet, 
green  things.  It  seemed  to  Anthony  as  if  it  all  were 
hostile — as  though  the  whole  outdoors  were  be 
sieging  this  house. 

He  caught  the  sway  of  the  pacing  figure  whose 


46  Trailin' 

shadow  moved  in  regular  rhythm  across  the  yellow 
shades.  It  entered  his  mind,  clung  there,  and 
finally  he  began  to  pace  in  the  same  cadence,  up 
and  down  the  room.  With  every  step  he  felt  that 
he  was  entering  deeper  into  the  danger  which 
threatened  John  Woodbury.  What  danger?  For 
answer  to  himself  he  stepped  to  the  windows  and 
pulled  down  the  shades.  At  least  he  could  be 
alone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOHN    BARD 

THERE  is  no  cleanser  of  the  mind  like  a  morning 
bath.  The  same  cold,  whipping  spray  which  calls 
up  the  pink  blood,  glowing  through  the  marble  of 
the  skin,  drives  the  ache  of  sleep  from  the  brain, 
and  washes  away  at  once  all  the  recorded  thoughts 
of  yesterday.  So  in  place  of  a  crowded  slate  of 
wonders  and  doubts,  Anthony  bore  down  to  the 
breakfast  table  a  willingness  to  take  what  the 
morning  might  bring  and  forget  the  night  before. 

John  Woodbury  was  already  there,  helping 
himself  from  the  covered  dishes,  for  the  meal  was 
served  in  the  English  style.  There  was  the  usual 
"Good-morning,  sir, "  "Good-morning,  Anthony, " 
and  then  they  took  their  places  at  the  table.  A 
cautious  survey  of  the  craglike  face  of  his  father 
showed  no  traces  of  a  sleepless  night;  but  then, 
what  could  a  single  night  of  unrest  mean  to  that 
body  of  iron  ? 

He  ventured,   remembering  the  implied  com- 
47 


4«  Trailin' 

mand  to  remain  within  the  house  until  further 
orders :  ' '  You  asked  me  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  before 
I  left  the  house.  I'd  rather  like  to  take  a  ride  this 
morning. " 

And  the  imperturbable  voice  replied:  "You've 
worn  your  horses  out  lately.  Better  give  them  a 
day  of  rest." 

That  was  all,  but  it  brought  back  to  Anthony 
the  thought  of  the  shadow  which  had  swept  cease 
lessly  across  the  yellow  shades  of  his  father's  room; 
and  he  settled  down  to  a  day  of  reading.  The 
misty  rain  of  the  night  before  had  cleared  the  sky 
of  its  vapours,  so  he  chose  a  nook  in  the  library 
where  the  bright  spring  sun  shone  full  and  the 
open  fire  supplied  the  warmth.  At  lunch  his  father 
did  not  appear,  and  Peters  announced  that  the 
master  was  busy  in  his  room  with  papers.  The 
afternoon  repeated  the  morning,  but  with  less  un 
rest  on  the  part  of  Anthony.  He  was  busy  with 
L'Assommoir,  and  lost  himself  in  the  story  of  down 
fall,  surrounding  himself  with  each  unbeautiful 
detail. 

Lunch  was  repeated  at  dinner,  for  still  John 
Woodbury  seemed  to  be  "busy  with  papers  in  his 
room. ' '  A  fear  came  to  Anthony  that  he  was  to 
be  dodged  indefinitely  in  this  manner,  deceived 
like  a  child,  and  kept  in  the  house  until  the  silent 


John  Bard  49 

drama  was  played  out.  But  when  he  sat  in  the 
library  that  evening  his  father  came  in  and  quietly 
drew  up  a  chair  by  the  fire.  The  stage  was  ideally 
set  for  a  confidence,  but  none  was  forthcoming. 
The  fire  shook  long,  sleepy  shadows  through  the 
room,  the  glow  of  the  two  floor-lamps  picked  out 
two  circles  of  light,  and  still  the  elder  man  sat 
over  his  paper  and  would  not  speak. 

L'Assommoir  ended,  and  to  rid  himself  of  the 
grey  tragedy,  Anthony  looked  up  and  through 
the  windows  toward  the  bright  night  which  lay 
over  the  gardens  and  terraces  outside,  for  a  full 
moon  silvered  all  with  a  flood  of  light.  It  was  a 
waiting  time,  and  into  it  the  old-fashioned  Dutch 
clock  in  the  corner  sent  its  voice  with  a  monoton 
ous,  softly  clanging  toll  of  seconds,  until  Anthony 
forgot  the  moonlight  over  the  outside  terraces  to 
watch  the  gradual  sway  of  the  pendulum.  A 
minute,  spent  in  this  manner,  was  equal  to  an  hour 
of  ordinary  time.  Fascinated  by  the  sway  of  the 
pendulum  he  became  conscious  of  the  passage  of 
existence  like  a  river  broad  and  wide  and  shining 
which  flowed  on  into  an  eternity  of  chance  and 
left  him  stationary  on  the  banks. 

The  voice  which  sounded  at  length  was  as  dim 
and  visionary  as  a  part  of  his  waking  dreau.£  It 
was  like  one  of  those  imagined  calls  from  the  world 


50  Trailin* 

of  action  to  him  who  stood  there,  watching  reality 
run  past  and  never  stirring  himself  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  thousand  opportunities  for  action. 
He  would  have  discarded  it  for  a  part  of  his  dream, 
had  not  he  seen  John  Woodbury  raise  his  head 
sharply,  heard  the  paper  fall  with  a  dry  crackling 
to  the  floor,  and  watched  the  square  jaw  of  his 
father  jut  out  in  that  familiar  way  which  meant 
danger. 

Once  more,  and  this  time  it  was  unmistakably 
clear:  "John  Bard, — John  Bard,  come  out  to 
me!" 

The  big,  grey  man  rose  with  widely  staring  eyes 
as  if  the  name  belonged  to  him,  and  strode  with  a 
thumping  step  into  the  secret  room.  Hardly  had 
the  clang  of  the  closing  door  died  out  when  he  re 
appeared,  fumbling  at  his  throat.  Straight  to  An 
thony  he  came  and  extended  a  key  from  which 
dangled  a  piece  of  thin  silver  chain.  It  was  the 
key  to  the  secret  room. 

He  took  it  in  both  hands,  like  a  young  knight 
receiving  the  pommel  of  his  sword  from  him  who 
has  just  given  the  accolade,  and  stared  down  at  it 
until  the  creaking  of  the  opened  French  windows 
startled  him  to  his  feet. 

"Xvait!"  he  called,  "I  will  go  also!" 

The  big  man  at  the  open  window  turned. 


John  Bard  51 

"You  will  sit  where  you  are  now, "  said  his  harsh 
voice,  "but  if  I  don't  return  you  have  the  key  to 
the  room/' 

His  burly  shoulders  disappeared  down  the  steps 
toward  the  garden,  and  Anthony  slipped  back 
into  his  chair;  yet  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
was  dreaming  of  disobeying  the  command  of  John 
Woodbury.  Woodbury — yet  the  big  man  had 
risen  automatically  in  answer  to  the  name  of  Bard. 
John  Bard!  It  struck  on  his  consciousness  like 
two  hammer  blows  wrecking  some  fragile  fabric; 
it  jarred  home  like  the  timed  blow  of  a  pugilist. 
Woodbury?  There  might  be  a  thousand  men 
capable  of  that  name,  but  there  could  only  be  one 
John  Bard,  and  that  was  he  who  had  disappeared 
down  the  steps  leading  to  the  garden.  Anthony 
swerved  in  his  chair  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  the 
Dutch  clock.  He  gave  himself  five  minutes  before 
he  should  move. 

The  watched  pot  will  never  boil,  and  the  minute 
hand  of  the  big  clock  dragged  forward  with  deadly 
pauses  from  one  black  mark  to  the  next.  Whispers 
rose  in  the  room.  Something  fluttered  the  fallen 
newspaper  as  if  a  ghost-hand  grasped  it  but  had 
not  the  strength  to  raise ;  and  the  window  rattled, 
with  a  sharp  gust  of  wind.  The  last  minute  An 
thony  spent  at  the  open  French  window  with  a 


52  Trailin' 

backward  eye  on  the  clock ;  then  he  raced  down  the 
steps  as  though  in  his  turn  he  answered  a  call  out 
of  the  night. 

The  placid  coolness  of  the  open  and  the  touch  of 
moist,  fresh  air  against  his  forehead  mocked  him 
as  he  reached  the  garden,  and  there  were  reassuring 
whispers  from  the  trees  he  passed ;  yet  he  went  on 
with  a  long,  easy  stride  like  a  runner  starting  a 
distance  race.  First  he  skirted  the  row  of  poplars 
on  the  drive;  then  doubled  back  across  the  meadow 
to  his  right  and  ran  in  a  sharp-angling  course 
across  an  orchard  of  apple  trees.  Diverging  from 
this  direction,  he  circled  at  a  quicker  pace  toward 
the  rear  of  the  grounds  and  coursed  like  a  wild  deer 
over  a  stretch  of  terraced  lawns.  On  one  of  these 
low  crests  he  stopped  short  under  the  black  shadow 
of  an  elm. 

In  the  smooth-shaven  centre  of  the  hollow  before 
him,  the  same  ground  over  which  he  had  run  and 
played  a  thousand  times  in  his  childhood,  he  saw 
two  tall  men  standing  back  to  back,  like  fighters 
come  to  a  last  stand  and  facing  a  crowd  of  foes. 
They  separated  at  once,  striding  out  with  a  mea 
sured  step,  and  it  was  not  until  they  moved  that 
he  caught  the  glint  of  metal  at  the  side  of  one  of 
them  and  knew  that  one  was  the  man  who  had 
answered  to  the  name  of  John  Bard  and  the  other 


John  Bard  53 

was  the  grey  man  who  had  spoken  to  him  at  the 
Garden  the  night  before.  He  knew  it  not  so  much 
by  the  testimony  of  his  eyes  at  that  dim  distance 
as  by  a  queer,  inner  feeling  that  this  must  be  so. 
There  was  also  a  sense  of  familiarity  about  the 
whole  thing,  as  if  he  were  looking  on  something 
which  he  had  seen  rehearsed  a  thousand  times. 

As  if  they  reached  the  end  of  an  agreed  course, 
the  two  whirled  at  the  same  instant,  the  metal 
in  their  hands  glinted  in  an  upward  semicircle, 
and  two  guns  barked  hoarsely  across  the  lawns. 

One  of  them  stood  with  his  gun  still  poised ;  the 
other  leaned  gradually  forward  and  toppled  at  full 
length  on  the  grass.  The  victor  strode  out  toward 
the  fallen,  but  hearing  the  wild  yell  of  Anthony  he 
stopped,  turned  his  head,  and  then  fled  into  the 
grove  of  trees  which  topped  the  next  rise  of  ground. 
After  him,  running  as  he  had  never  before  raced, 
went  Anthony;  his  hand,  as  he  sprinted,  already 
tensed  for  the  coming  battle;  two  hundred  yards 
at  the  most  and  he  would  reach  the  lumbering 
figure  which  had  plunged  into  the  night  of  the 
trees ;  but  a  call  reached  him  as  sharp  as  the  crack 
of  the  guns  a  moment  before :  ' '  Anthony ! ' ' 

His  head  twitched  to  one  side  and  he  saw  John 
Bard  rising  to  his  elbow.  His  racing  stride  short 
ened  choppily. 


54  Trailin' 

"Anthony!" 

He  could  not  choose  but  halt,  groaning  to  give 
up  the  chase,  and  then  sped  back  to  the  fallen  man. 
At  his  coming  John  Bard  collapsed  on  the  grass, 
and  when  Anthony  knelt  beside  him  a  voice  in 
rough  dialect  began,  as  if  an  enforced  culture  were 
brushed  away  and  forgotten  in  the  crisis:    "An 
thony,  there  ain't  no  use  in  followin'  him!" 
"Where  did  the  bullet  strike  you?    Quick!" 
"A  place  where  it  ain't  no  use  to  look.    I  know ! " 

"Let  me  follow  him;  it's  not  too  late " 

The  dying  man  struggled  to  one  elbow. 
"Don't  follow,  lad,  if  you  love  me. " 

"Who  is  he?    Give  me  his  name  and ' 

"He's  acted  in  the  name  of  God.    You  have  no 
right  to  hunt  him  down.  " 
"Then  the  law  will  do  that. " 
' '  Not  the  law.    For  God's  sake  swear ' 

"I'll  swear  anything.     But  now  lie  quiet;  let 
»> 

' '  Don't  try.  This  couldn't  end  no  other  way  for 
John  Bard." 

"Is  that  your  real  name?" 

"Yes.  Now  listen,  Anthony,  for  my  time's 
short."  * 

He  closed  his  eyes  as  if  fighting  silently  for 
strength. 


John  Bard  55 

Then :  "When  I  was  a  lad  like  you,  Anthony —  " 
That  was  all.  The  massive  body  relaxed ;  the  head 
fell  back  into  the  dewy  grass.  Anthony  pressed 
his  head  against  the  breast  of  John  Bard  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  still  a  faint  pulse. 
With  his  pocket  knife  he  ripped  away  the  coat 
from  the  great  chest  and  then  tore  open  the  shirt. 
On  the  expanse  of  the  hairy  chest  there  was  one 
spot  from  which  the  purple  blood  welled ;  a  deadly 
place  for  a  wound,  and  yet  the  bleeding  showed 
that  there  must  still  be  life. 

He  had  no  chance  to  bind  the  wound,  for  John 
Bard  opened  his  eyes  again  and  said,  as  if  in  his 
dream  he  had  still  continued  his  tale  to  Anthony. 

"So  that's  all  the  story,  lad.  Do  you  forgive 
me?" 

"For  what,  sir?    In  God's  name,  for  what?" 

"Damnation!  Tell  me;  do  you  forgive  John 
Bard?" 

He  did  not  hear  the  answer,  for  he  murmured: 
"Even  Joan  would  forgive, "  and  died. 


CHAPTER  VII 
BLUEBEARD'S  ROOM 

As  Anthony  Woodbury,  he  knelt  beside  the 
dying.  As  Anthony  Bard  he  rose  with  the  dead 
man  in  his  arms  a  mighty  burden  even  for  his 
supple  strength;  yet  he  went  staggering  up  the 
slope,  across  a  level  terrace,  and  back  to  the  house. 
There  it  was  Peters  who  answered  his  call,  Peters 
with  a  flabby  face  grown  grey,  but  still  the  perfect 
servant  who  asked  no  questions;  together  they 
bore  the  weight  up  the  stairs  and  placed  it  on  John 
Bard's  bed.  While  Anthony  kept  his  steady  vigil 
by  the  dead  man,  it  was  Peters  again  who  sum 
moned  the  police  and  the  useless  doctor. 

To  the  old,  uniformed  sergeant,  Anthony  told 
a  simple  lie.  His  father  had  gone  for  a  walk 
through  the  grounds  because  the  night  was  fine, 
and  Anthony  was  to  join  him  there  later,  but  when 
he  arrived  he  found  a  dying  man  who  could  not 
even  explain  the  manner  of  his  death. 

"Nothin'  surprises  me  about  a  rich  man's 
56 


Bluebeard's  Room  57 

death, "  said  the  sergeant,  "not  in  these  here  days 
of  anarchy.  Got  a  place  to  write  ?  I  want  to  make 
out  my  report." 

So  Anthony  led  the  grizzled  fellow  to  the  library 
and  supplied  him  with  what  he  wished.  The  ser 
geant,  saying  good-bye,  shook  hands  with  a  linger 
ing  grip. 

''I  knew  John  Woodbury,"  he  said,  "just  by 
sight,  but  I'm  here  to  tell  the  world  that  you've 
lost  a  father  who  was  just  about  all  man.  So- 
long;  I'll  be  seem'  you  again. " 

Left  alone,  Anthony  Bard  went  to  the  secret 
room.  The  key  fitted  smoothly  into  the  lock. 
What  the  door  opened  upon  was  a  little  grey  apart 
ment  with  an  arched  ceiling,  a  place  devoid  of  a 
single  article  of  furniture  save  a  straight-backed 
chair  in  the  centre.  Otherwise  Anthony  saw  three 
things — two  pictures  on  the  wall  and  a  little  box 
in  the  corner.  He  went  about  his  work  very 
calmly,  for  here,  he  knew,  was  the  only  light  upon 
the  past  of  John  Bard,  that  past  which  had  lain 
passive  so  long  and  overwhelmed  him  on  this  night. 

First  he  took  up  the  box,  as  being  by  far  the 
most  promising  of  the  three  to  give  him  what  he 
wished  to  know;  the  name  of  the  slayer,  the  place 
where  he  could  be  found,  and  the  cause  of  the  slay 
ing.  It  held  only  two  things ;  a  piece  of  dirty  silk 


58  Trailin' 

and  a  small  oil  can;  but  the  oil  can  and  the  black 
smears  on  the  silk  made  him  look  closer,  closer 
until  the  meaning  struck  him  in  a  flare,  as  the  glow 
of  a  lighted  match  suddenly  illumines,  even  if 
faintly,  an  entire  room. 

In  that  box  the  revolver  had  lain,  and  here  every 
day  through  all  the  year,  John  Bard  retired  to 
clean  and  oil  his  gun,  oil  and  reclean  it,  keeping  it 
ready  for  the  crisis.  That  was  why  he  went  to  the 
secret  room  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  call  from  the 
garden,  and  carrying  that  gun  with  him  he  had 
walked  out,  prepared.  The  time  had  come  for 
which  he  had  waited  a  quarter  of  a  century,  know 
ing  all  that  time  that  the  day  must  arrive.  It  was 
easy  to  understand  now  many  an  act  of  the  big 
grim  man;  but  still  there  was  no  light  upon  the 
slayer. 

As  he  sat  pondering  he  began  to  feel  as  if  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  him,  watching,  waiting,  mock 
ing  him,  eyes  from  behind  which  stared  until  a 
chill  ran  up  his  back.  He  jerked  his  head  up,  at 
last,  and  flashed  a  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

Indeed  there  was  mockery  in  the  smile  with 
which  she  stared  down  to  him  from  her  frame, 
down  to  him  and  past  him  as  if  she  scorned  in  him 
all  men  forever.  It  was  not  that  which  made  An 
thony  close  his  eyes.  He  was  trying  with  all  his 


Bluebeard's  Room  59 

might  to  conjure  up  his  own  image  vividly.  He 
looked  again,  comparing  his  picture  with  this  por 
trait  on  the  wall,  and  then  he  knew  why  the  grey 
man  at  the  Garden  had  said:  "Son,  who's  your 
mother?"  For  this  was  she  into  whose  eyes  he 
now  stared. 

She  had  the  same  deep,  dark  eyes,  the  same  black 
hair,  the  same  rather  aquiline,  thin  face  which  her 
woman's  eyes  and  lovely  mouth  made  beautiful, 
but  otherwise  the  same.  He  was  simply  a  copy  of 
that  head  hewn  with  a  rough  chisel — a  sculptor's 
clay  model  rather  than  a  smoothly  finished  re 
production. 

Ah,  and  the  fine  spirit  of  her,  the  buoyant, 
proud,  scornful  spirit !  He  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  her,  drew  closer,  smiling  as  if  she  could  meet  and 
welcome  his  caress,  and  then  remembered  that 
this  was  a  thing  of  canvas  and  paint — a  bright 
shadow;  no  more. 

To  the  second  picture  he  turned  with  a  deeper 
hope,  but  his  heart  fell  at  once,  for  all  he  saw  was 
an  enlarged  photograph,  two  mountains,  snow- 
topped  in  the  distance,  and  in  the  foreground,  first 
a  mighty  pine  with  the  branches  lopped  smoothly 
from  the  side  as  though  some  tremendous  ax  had 
trimmed  it,  behind  this  a  ranch -house,  and  farther 
back  the  smooth  waters  of  a  lake. 


•• 


60  Trailin' 

He  turned  away  sadly  and  had  reached  the  door 
when  something  made  him  turn  back  and  stand 
once  more  before  the  photograph.  It  was  quite 
the  same,  but  it  took  on  a  different  significance  as 
he  linked  it  with  the  two  other  objects  in  the  room, 
the  picture  of  his  mother  and  the  revolver  box. 
He  found  himself  searching  among  the  forest  for 
the  figures  of  two  great  grey  men,  equal  in  bulk, 
such  Titans  as  that  wild  country  needed. 

West  it  must  be,  but  where?  North  or  South? 
West,  and  from  the  West  surely  that  grey  man  at 
the  Garden  had  come,  and  from  the  West  John 
Bard  himself.  Those  two  mountains,  spearing  the 
sky  with  their  sharp  horns — they  would  be  the  pole 
by  which  he  steered  his  course. 

A  strong  purpose  is  to  a  man  what  an  engine  is 
to  a  ship.  Suppose  a  hull  lies  in  the  water,  stanchly 
built,  graceful  in  lines  of  strength  and  speed,  nosing 
at  the  wharf  or  tugging  back  on  the  mooring  line, 
it  may  be  a  fine  piece  of  building  but  it  cannot  be 
much  admired.  But  place  an  engine  in  the  hull 
and  add  to  those  fine  lines  the  purr  of  a  motor- 
there  is  a  sight  which  brings  a  smile  to  the  lips 
and  a  light  in  the  eyes.  Anthony  had  been  like 
the  unengined  hulk,  moored  in  gentle  waters  with 
never  the  hope  of  a  voyage  to  rough  seas.  Now 


Bluebeard's  Room  61 

that  his  purpose  came  to  him  he  was  calmly  eager, 
almost  gay  in  the  prospect  of  the  battle. 

On  the  highest  hill  of  Anson  Place  in  a  tomb 
overlooking  the  waters  of  the  sound,  they  lowered 
the  body  of  John  Bard. 

Afterward  Anthony  Bard  went  back  to  the 
secret  room  of  his  father.  The  old  name  of  An 
thony  Woodbury  he  had  abandoned;  in  fact,  he 
felt  almost  like  dating  a  new  existence  from  the 
moment  when  he  heard  the  voice  calling  out  of  the 
garden:  "John  Bard,  come  out  to  me!"  If  life 
was  a  thread,  that  voice  was  the  shears  which 
snapped  the  trend  of  his  life  and  gave  him  a  new 
beginning.  As  Anthony  Bard  he  opened  once 
more  the  door  of  the  chamber. 

He  had  replaced  the  revolver  of  John  Bard  in 
the  box  with  the  oiled  silk.  Now  he  took  it  out 
again  and  shoved  it  into  his  back  trouser  pocket, 
and  then  stood  a  long  moment  under  the  picture 
of  the  woman  he  knew  was  his  mother.  As  he 
stared  he  felt  himself  receding  to  youth,  to  boy 
hood,  to  child  days,  finally  to  a  helpless  infant 
which  that  woman,  perhaps,  had  held  and  loved. 
In  those  dark,  brooding  eyes  he  strove  to  read  the 
mystery  of  his  existence,  but  they  remained  as  un 
riddled  as  the  free  stars  of  heaven. 

He  repeated  to  himself  his  new  name,  his  real 


62  Trailin' 

name:  " Anthony  Bard."  It  seemed  to  make 
him  a  stranger  in  his  own  eyes.  "Woodbury" 
had  been  a  name  of  culture ;  it  suggested  the  air  of 
a  long  descent.  "Bard"  was  terse,  short,  brutally 
abrupt,  alive  with  possibilities  of  action.  Those 
possibilities  he  would  never  learn  from  the  dead 
lips  of  his  father.  He  sought  them  from  his  mother, 
but  only  the  painted  mouth  and  the  painted  smile 
answered  him. 

He  turned  again  to  the  picture  of  the  house  with 
the  snow-topped  mountains  in  the  distance.  There 
surely,  was  the  solution ;  somewhere  in  the  infinite 
reaches  of  the  West. 

Finally  he  cut  the  picture  from  its  frame  and 
rolled  it  up.  He  felt  that  in  so  doing  he  would 
carry  with  him  an  identification  tag — a  clue  to 
himself.  With  that  clue  in  his  travelling  bag,  he 
started  for  the  city,  bought  his  ticket,  and  boarded 
a  train  for  the  West. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARTY   WILKES 

THE  motion  of  the  train,  during  those  first  two 
days  gave  Anthony  Bard  a  strange  feeling  that 
he  was  travelling  from  the  present  into  the  past. 
He  felt  as  if  it  was  not  miles  that  he  placed  behind 
him,  but  days,  weeks,  months,  years,  that  unrolled 
and  carried  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning 
of  himself.  He  heard  nothing  about  him;  he  saw 
nothing  of  the  territory  which  whirled  past  the 
window.  They  were  already  far  West  before  a 
man  boarded  the  train  and  carried  to  Bard  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  mountain  desert. 

He  got  on  the  train  at  a  Nebraska  station  and 
Anthony  sat  up  to  watch,  for  a  man  of  importance 
does  not  need  size  in  order  to  have  a  mien.  Napo 
leon  struck  awe  through  the  most  gallant  of  his 
hero  marshals,  and  even  the  porter  treated  this 
little  brown  man  with  a  respect  that  was  ludicrous 
at  first  glimpse. 

He  was  so  ugly  that  one  smiled  on  glancing  at 

63 


64  Trailin' 

him.  His  face,  built  on  the  plan  of  a  wedge,  was 
extremely  narrow  in  front,  with  a  long,  high- 
bridged  nose,  slanting  forehead,  thin-lipped  mouth, 
and  a  chin  that  jutted  out  to  a  point,  but  going 
back  all  the  lines  flared  out  like  a  reversed  vista. 
A  ridge  of  muscle  crested  each  side  of  the  broad 
jaws  and  the  ears  flaunted  out  behind  so  that  he 
seemed  to  have  been  built  for  travelling  through 
the  wind. 

The  same  wind,  perhaps,  had  blown  the  hair 
away  from  the  upper  part  of  his  forehead,  leaving 
him  quite  bald  half  way  back  on  his  head,  where  a 
veritable  forest  of  hair  began,  and  continued, 
growing  thicker  and  longer,  until  it  brushed  the 
collar  of  his  coat  behind. 

When  he  entered  the  car  he  stood  eying  his 
seat  for  a  long  moment  like  a  dog  choosing  the 
softest  place  on  the  floor  before  it  lies  down.  Then 
he  took  his  place  and  sat  with  his  hands  folded  in 
his  lap,  moveless,  speechless,  with  the  little  keen 
eyes  straight  before  him — three  hours  that  state 
continued.  Then  he  got  up  and  Anthony  followed 
him  to  the  diner.  They  sat  at  the  same  table. 

"The  journey,"  said  Anthony,  "  is  pretty  tire 
some  through  monotonous  scenery  like  this. " 

The  little  keen  eyes  surveyed  him  a  moment 
before  the  man  spoke. 


Marty  Wilkes  65 

"There  was  buffalo  on  them  plains  once. " 

If  someone  had  said  to  an  ignorant  questioner, 
"This  little  knoll  is  called  Bunker  Hill, "  he  could 
not  have  been  more  abashed  than  was  Anthony, 
who  glanced  through  the  window  at  the  dreary 
prospect,  looked  back  again,  and  found  that  the 
sharp  eyes  once  more  looked  straight  ahead  with 
out  the  slightest  light  of  triumph  in  his  coup. 
Silence,  apparently,  did  not  in  the  least  abash 
this  man. 

"Know  a  good  deal  about  buffaloes?" 

"Yes." 

It  was  not  the  insulting  curtness  of .  one  who 
wishes  to  be  left  in  peace,  but  simply  a  statement 
of  bald  fact. 

"Really?"  queried  Anthony.  "I  didn't  think 
you  were  as  old  as  that ! ' ' 

It  appeared  that  this  remark  was  worthy  of  no 
answer  whatever.  The  little  man  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  his  order  of  ham  and  eggs,  cut  off  the  first 
egg,  manoeuvred  it  carefully  into  position  on  his 
knife,  and  raised  it  toward  a  mouth  that  stretched 
to  astonishing  proportions;  but  at  the  critical 
moment  the  egg  slipped  and  flopped  back  on  the 
plate. 

"Missed!"  said  Anthony. 

He  couldn't  help  it;  the  ejaculation  popped  out 


66  Trailin' 

of  its  own  accord.  The  other  regarded  him  with 
grave  displeasure. 

"If  you  had  your  bead  drawed  an'  somebody 
jogged  your  arm  jest  as  you  pulled  the  trigger, 
would  you  call  it  a  miss?  " 

"Excuse  me.  I've  no  doubt  you're  extremely 
accurate. ' ' 

"I  ne'er  miss, "  said  the  other,  and  proved  it  by 
disposing  of  the  egg  at  the  next  imposing  mouthful. 

"I  should  like  to  know  you.  My  name  is 
Anthony  Bard." 

"I'm  Marty  Wilkes.    H'ware  ye?" 

They  shook  hands. 

"Westerner,  Mr.  Wilkes?" 

"This  is  my  furthest  East.  " 

"Have  a  pleasant  time?" 

A  gesture  indicated  the  barren,  brown  waste  of 
prairie. 

"Too  much  civilization. " 

"Really?" 

1 '  Even  the  cattle  got  no  fight  in  'em. ' '  He  added, 
"That  sounds  like  I'm  a  fighter.  I  ain't.  " 

"Till  you're  stirred  up,  Mr.  Wilkes?" 

"Heat  me  up  an'  I'll  burn.    So'll  wood.  " 

"You're  pretty  familiar  with  the  Western 
country?" 

"I  get  around." 


Marty  Wilkes  67 

"Perhaps  you'd  recognize  this." 

He  took  a  scroll  from  his  breast  pocket  and 
unrolled  the  photograph  of  the  forest  and  the 
ranchhouse  with  the  two  mountains  in  the  dis 
tance.  Wilkes  considered  it  unperturbed. 

"Them  are  the  Little  Brothers. " 

"Ah!  Then  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  travel  to  the 
foot  of  the  Little  Brothers?" 

"No,  about  sixty  miles  from  'em. " 

' '  Impossible !  Why,  the  mountains  almost  over 
hang  that  house. " 

Wilkes  handed  back  the  picture  and  resumed  his 
eating  without  reply.  It  was  not  a  sullen  resent 
ment;  it  was  hunger  and  a  lack  of  curiosity.  He 
was  not  "heated  up.  " 

"Any  one, "  said  Anthony,  to  lure  the  other  on, 
"could  see  that." 

"Sure;  any  one  with  bad  eyes.  " 

"But  how  can  you  tell  it's  sixty  miles?" 

"I've  been  there." 

"Well,  at  least  the  big  tree  there  and  the  ranch- 
house  will  not  be  very  hard  to  find.  But  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  travel  in  a  circle  around  the  Little 
Brothers,  keeping  a  sixty-mile  radius?" 

' '  If  you  want  to  waste  a  pile  of  time.    Yes. ' ' 

1 '  I  suppose  you  could  lead  me  right  to  the  spot  ? ' ' 

"I  could." 


68  Trailin' 

"How?" 

"That's  about  fifty-five  miles  straight  north-east 
of  the  Little  Brothers.  " 

"How  the  devil  can  you  tell  that,  man?" 

"That  ain't  hard.  They's  a  pretty  steady  north 
wind  that  blows  in  them  parts.  It's  cold  and  it's 
strong.  Now  when  you  been  out  there  long  enough 
and  get  the  idea  that  the  only  things  that  live  is 
because  God  loves  'em.  Mostly  it's  jest  plain  sand 
and  rock.  The  trees  live  because  they  got  protec 
tion  from  that  north  wind.  Nature  puts  moss  on 
'em  on  the  north  side  to  shelter  'em  from  that  same 
wind.  Look  at  that  picture  close.  You  see  that 
rough  place  on  the  side  of  that  tree — jest  a  shadow 
like  the  whiskers  of  a  man  that  ain't  shaved  for  a 
week?  That's  the  moss.  Now  if  that's  north,  the 
rest  is  easy.  That  place  is  north-east  of  the  Little 
Brothers." 

"By  Jove!  how  did  you  get  such  eyes?" 

"Used 'em." 

"The  reason  I'd  like  to  find  the  house  is  be 
cause " 

"Reasons  ain't  none  too  popular  with  me." 

"Well,  you're  pretty  sure  that  your  suggestion 
will  take  me  to  the  spot?" 

"I'm  sure  of  nothing  except  my  gun  when  the 
weather's  hot." 


Marty  Wilkes  69 

"Reasonably  sure,  however?  The  pine  trees 
and  the  house — if  I  don't  find  one  I'll  find  the 
other." 

"The  house'll  be  in  ruins,  probably." 

"Why?" 

"That  picture  was  taken  a  long  time  ago. " 

"Do  you  read  the  mind  of  a  picture,  Mr. 
Wilkes?" 

"No." 

"The  tree,  however,  will  be  there." 

"No,  that's  chopped  down." 

"That's  going  a  bit  too  far.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  you  know  that  this  particular  tree  is  down?" 

"That's  first  growth.  All  that  country's  been 
cut  over.  D'  you  think  they'd  pass  up  a  tree  the 
size  of  that?" 

"It's  going  to  be  hard,"  said  Anthony  with  a 
frown,  "for  me  to  get  used  to  the  West. " 

"Maybe  not." 

"I  can  ride  and  shoot  pretty  well,  but  I  don't 
know  the  people,  I  haven't  worn  their  clothes,  and 
I  can't  talk  their  lingo. " 

"The  country's  mostly  rocks  when  it  ain't 
ground;  the  people  is  pretty  generally  men  and 
women;  the  clothes  they  wear  is  cotton  and  wool, 
the  lingo  they  talk  is  English. " 

It  was  like  a  paragraph  out  of  some  book  of  ulti- 


70  Trailin' 

mate  knowledge.  He  was  not  entirely  contented 
with  his  statement,  however,  for  now  he  qualified 
it  as  follows:  " Maybe  some  of  'em  don't  talk  good 
book  English.  Quite  a  pile  ain't  had  much  eddi- 
cation;  in  fact  there  ain't  awful  many  like  me. 
But  they  can  tell  you  how  much  you  owe  'em  an' 
they'll  understand  you  when  you  say  you're 
hungry.  What's  your  business?  Excuse  me;  I 
don't  generally  ask  questions. " 

"That's  all  right.  You've  probably  caught  the 
habit  from  me.  I'm  simply  going  out  to  look  about 
for  excitement. " 

"A  feller  gener'ly  finds  what  he's  lookin'  for. 
Maybe  you  won't  be  disappointed.  I've  knowed 
places  on  the  range  where  excitement  growed  like 
truit  on  a  tree.  It  was  like  that  there  manna  in 
the  Bible.  You  didn't  have  to  work  none  for  it. 
You  jest  laid  still  an'  it  sort  of  dropped  in  your 
mouth." 

He  added  with  a  sigh:  "But  them  times  ain't 


no  more." 


"That 'shard  on  me,  eh?" 

"Don't  start  complainin'  till  you  miss  your  feed. 
Things  are  gettin'  pretty  crowded,  but  there's 
ways  of  gettin'  elbow  room — even  at  a  bar. " 

"And  you  really  think  there's  nothing  which 
distinguishes  the  Westerner  from  the  Easterner?" 


Marty  Wilkes  7* 

"Just  the  Western  feeling,  partner.  Get  that 
an'  you'll  be  at  home. " 

' '  If  you  were  a  little  further  East  and  said  that, 
people  might  be  inclined  to  smile  a  bit. " 

11  Partner,  if  they  did,  they  wouldn't  finish  their 
smile.  But  I  heard  a  feller  say  once  that  the  funny 
thing  about  men  east  and  west  of  the  Rockies  was 
that  they  was  all " 

He  paused  as  if  trying  to  remember. 

"Well?" 

''Americans,  Mr.  Bard. " 


CHAPTER  IX 
"THIS  PLACE  FOR  REST" 

As  the  white  heat  of  midday  passed  and  the 
shadows  lengthened  more  and  more  rapidly  to  the 
east,  the  sheep  moved  out  from  the  shade  and 
from  the  tangle  of  the  brush  to  feed  in  the  open, 
and  the  dogs,  which  had  laid  one  on  either  side  of 
the  man,  rose  and  trotted  out  to  recommence  their 
vigil ;  but  the  shepherd  did  not  change  his  position 
where  he  sat  cross-legged  under  the  tree. 

Alternately  he  stroked  the  drooping  moustache 
to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  with  a  little  twist 
each  time,  which  turned  the  hair  to  a  sharp  point 
in  its  furthest  downward  reach  near  his  chin.  To 
the  right,  to  the  left,  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  while 
his  eyes,  sad  with  a  perpetual  mist,  looked  over 
the  lake  and  far  away  to  the  white  tops  of  the  Little 
Brothers,  now  growing  blue  with  shadow. 

Finally  with  a  brown  forefinger  he  lifted  the 
brush  of  moustache  on  his  upper  lip,  leaned  a  little, 
and  spat.  After  that  he  leaned  back  with  a  sigh  of 

72 


"This  Place  for  Rest"  73 

content;  the  brown  juice  had  struck  fairly  and 
squarely  on  the  centre  of  the  little  stone  which  for 
the  pasi  two  hours  he  had  been  endeavouring 
vainly  to  hit.  The  wind  had  been  against  him. 

All  was  well.  The  spindling  tops  of  the  second- 
growth  forest  pointed  against  the  pale  blue  of  a 
stainless  sky,  and  through  that  clear  air  the  blat- 
ting  of  the  most  distant  sheep  sounded  close, 
mingled  with  the  light  clangour  of  the  bells.  But 
the  perfect  peace  was  broken  rudely  now  by  the 
form  of  a  horseman  looming  black  and  large  against 
the  eastern  sky.  He  trotted  his  horse  down  the 
slope,  scattered  a  group  of  noisy  sheep  from  side 
to  side  before  him,  and  drew  rein  before  the 
shepherd. 

"Evening." 

"Evening,  stranger." 

"Own  this  land?" 

"No;  rent  it." 

"Could  I  camp  here?" 

The  shepherd  lifted  his  moustache  again  and 
spat;  when  he  spoke  his  eyes  held  steadily  and 
sadly  on  the  little  stone,  which  he  had  missed  again. 

"Can't  think  of  nobody  who'd  stop  you. " 

* '  That  your  house  over  there  ?    You  rent  that  ? ' ' 

He  pointed  to  a  broken-backed  ruin  which  stood 
on  the  point  of  land  that  jutted  out  onto  the  waters 


74  Trailin' 

of  the  lake,  a  crumbling  structure  slowly  blacken 
ing  with  time. 

"Nope." 

A  shadow  of  a  frown  crossed  the  face  of  the 
stranger  and  was  gone  again  more  quickly  than  a 
cloud  shadow  brushed  over  the  window  on  a  windy 
city  in  March. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "this  place  looks  pretty  good 
tome.  Ever  fish  those  streams  ?" 

"Don't  eat  fish." 

"I'll  wager  you're  missing  some  first-class  trout, 
though.  By  Jove,  I'd  like  to  cast  a  couple  of  times 
over  some  of  the  pools  I've  passed  in  the  last  hour ! 
By  the  way,  who  owns  that  house  over  there?" 

"Same  feller  that  owns  this  land. " 

"That  so?    What's  his  name?" 

The  other  lifted  his  shaggy  eyebrows  and  stared 
at  the  stranger. 

"Ain't  been  long  around  here,  eh?" 

"No." 

"William  Drew,  he  owns  that  house. " 

"William  Drew?"  repeated  the  rider,  as  though 
imprinting  the  word  on  his  memory.  "Is  he 
home?" 

"Maybe." 

"I'll  ride  over  and  ask  him  if  he  can  put  me 
up." 


"This  Place  for  Rest"  75 

"Wait  a  minute.  He  may  be  home,  but  he  lives 
on  the  other  side  of  the  range. " 

' '  Very  far  from  here  ? ' ' 

"A  piece." 

"How  11 1  know  him  when  I  see  him?" 

"Big  feller — grey — broad  shoulders." 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  other,  and  smiled  as 
though  the  picture  pleased  him.  "Ill  hunt  him 
up  and  ask  him  if  I  can  camp  out  in  this  house 
of  his  for  a  while. " 

"Well,  that's  your  party." 

"Don't  you  think  he'd  let  me?" 

' '  Maybe ;  but  the  house  ain't  lucky.  " 

"That  so?" 

' '  Sure.    There's  a  grave  in  front  of  it. " 

"A  grave?    Whose?" 

"Dunno." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  worry  me.  Ill  drop  over  the 
hill  and  see  Drew.  " 

"Maybe  you'd  better  wait.  You'll  be  passin' 
him  on  the  road,  like  as  not. " 

"How's  that?" 

' '  He  comes  over  here  on  Tuesdays  once  a  month ; 
to-morrow  he's  about  due. " 

' '  Good.  In  the  meantime  I  can  camp  over  there 
by  that  stream,  eh?" 

"Don't  know  of  nobody  who'd  stop  you." 


76  Trailin' 

' '  By  the  way,  what  brings  Drew  over  here  every 
month?" 

''Never  asked  him.  I  was  brung  up  not  to  ask 
questions. " 

The  stranger  accepted  this  subtle  rebuke  with 
such  an  open,  infectious  laugh  that  the  shepherd 
smiled  in  the  very  act  of  spitting  at  the  stone,  with 
the  result  that  he  missed  it  by  whole  inches. 

"I'll  answer  some  of  the  questions  you  haven't 
asked,  then.  My  name  is  Anthony  Bard  and  I'm 
out  here  seeing  the  mountains  and  having  a  bully 
time  in  general  with  my  rod  and  gun. " 

The  sad  eyes  regarded  him  without  interest,  but 
Bard  swung  from  his  horse  and  advanced  with 
outstretched  hand. 

"I  may  be  about  here  for  a  few  days  and  we 
might  as  well  get  acquainted,  eh?  I'll  promise  to 
lay  off  the  questions. " 

"I'm  Logan." 

"Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Logan." 

"Same  t'  you.  Don't  happen  to  have  no  fine- 
cut  about  you?" 

"No.    Sorry." 

"So'm  I.  Ran  out  an'  now  all  I've  got  is  plug. 
Kind  of  hard  on  the  teeth  an'  full  of  molasses. " 

"I've  some  pipe  tobacco,  though,  which  might 
do." 


"This  Place  for  Rest"          77 

He  produced  a  pouch  which  Logan  opened, 
taking  from  it  a  generous  pinch. 

"Looks  kind  of  like  fine-cut — smells  kind  of  like 
the  real  thing" — here  he  removed  the  quid  from 
his  mouth  and  introduced  the  great  pinch  of  to 
bacco —  "an'  I'll  be  damned  if  it  don't  taste  a  pile 
the  same!" 

The  misty  eyes  centred  upon  Bard  and  a  light 
grew  up  in  them. 

"Maybe  you'd  put  a  price  on  this  tobacco, 
stranger?" 

"It's  yours, "  said  Bard,  "to  help  you  forget  all 
the  questions  I've  asked." 

The  shepherd  acted  at  once  lest  the  other  might 
change  his  mind,  dumping  the  contents  of  the 
pouch  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  shirt.  After 
ward  his  gaze  sought  the  dim  summits  of  the  Little 
Brothers,  and  a  sad,  great  resolution  grew  up  and 
hardened  the  lines  of  his  sallow  face. 

"You  can  camp  with  me  if  you  want — partner. " 

A  cough,  hastily  summoned,  covered  Bard's 
smile. 

"Thanks  awfully,  but  I'm  used  to  camping 
alone — and  rather  like  it  that  way. " 

"Which  I'd  say,  the  same  goes  here, "  responded 
the  shepherd  with  infinite  relief,  "I  ain't  got  much 
use  for  company — away  from  a  bar.  But  I  could 


78  Trailin' 

show  you  a  pretty  neat  spot  for  a  camp,  over  there 
by  the  river. " 

"Thanks,  but  I'll  explore  for  myself." 

He  swung  again  into  the  saddle  and  trotted 
whistling  down  the  slope  toward  the  creek  which 
Logan  had  pointed  out.  But  once  fairly  out  of 
sight  in  the  second-growth  forest,  he  veered 
sharply  to  the  right,  touched  his  tough  cattle-pony 
with  the  spurs,  and  headed  at  a  racing  pace  straight 
for  the  old  ruined  house. 

Even  from  a  distance  the  house  appeared  un 
mistakably  done  for,  but  not  until  he  came  close 
at  hand  could  Bard  appreciate  the  full  extent  of 
the  ruin.  Every  individual  board  appeared  to  be 
rotting  and  crumbling  toward  the  ground,  awaiting 
the  shake  of  one  fierce  gust  of  wind  to  disappear 
in  a  cloud  of  mouldy  dust.  He  left  his  horse  with 
the  reins  hanging  over  its  head  behind  the  house 
and  entered  by  the  back  door.  One  step  past  the 
threshold  brought  him  misadventure,  for  his  foot 
drove  straight  through  the  rotten  flooring  and  his 
leg  disappeared  up  to  the  knee. 

After  that  he  proceeded  more  cautiously,  follow 
ing  the  lines  of  the  beams  on  which  the  boards  were 
nailed,  but  even  these  shook  and  groaned  under  his 
weight.  A  whimsical  fancy  made  him  think  of  the 
fabled  boat  of  Charon  which  will  float  a  thousand 


"This  Place  for  Rest"  79 

bodiless  spirits  over  the  Styx  but  which  sinks  to  the 
water-line  with  the  weight  of  a  single  human  being. 

So  he  passed  forward  like  one  in  a  fabric  of 
spider-webs  almost  fearing  to  breathe  lest  the 
whole  house  should  puff  away  to  shreds  before 
him.  Half  the  boards,  fallen  from  the  ceiling,  re 
vealed  the  bare  rafters  above;  below  there  were 
ragged  holes  in  the  flooring.  In  one  place  a  limb, 
torn  by  lightning  or  wind  from  its  overhanging 
tree,  had  crashed  through  the  corner  of  the  roof 
and  dropped  straight  through  to  the  ground. 

At  last  he  reached  a  habitable  room  in  the  front 
of  the  house.  It  was  a  new  shell  built  inside  the 
old  wreck,  with  four  stout  corner-posts  supporting 
cross-beams,  which  in  turn  held  up  the  mouldering 
roof.  In  the  centre  was  a  rude  table  and  on  either 
side  a  bunk  built  against  the  wall.  Perhaps  this 
was  where  Drew  lived  on  the  occasions  of  his  visits 
to  the  old  ranchhouse. 

Out  of  the  gloom  of  the  place,  Bard  stepped  with 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  like  one  who  shakes  off 
the  spell  of  a  nightmare.  He  strode  through  the 
doorway  and  took  the  slant,  warm  sun  of  the  after 
noon  full  in  his  face. 

He  found  himself  in  front  of  the  only  spot  on  the 
entire  premises  which  showed  the  slightest  care, 
the  mound  of  a  grave  under  the  shelter  of  two  trees 


8°  Trailin' 

whose  branches  were  interwoven  overhead  in  a 
sort  of  impromptu  roof.  From  the  surface  of  the 
mound  all  the  weeds  and  grasses  had  been  care 
fully  cleared  away,  and  around  its  edge  ran  a  path 
covered  with  gravel  and  sand.  It  was  a  well- 
beaten  path  with  the  mark  of  heels  still  compara 
tively  fresh  upon  it. 

The  headstone  itself  bore  not  a  vestige  of  moss, 
but  time  had  cracked  it  diagonally  and  the  chiselled 
letters  were  weathered  away.  He  studied  it  with 
painful  care,  poring  intently  over  each  faint  im 
pression.  He  who  cared  for  the  grave  had  appar 
ently  been  troubled  only  to  keep  the  stone  free  from 
dirt — the  lettering  he  must  have  known  by  heart. 
At  length  Bard  made  out  this  inscription : 


HERE  SLEEPS 

JOAN 
WIFE  OF  WILLIAM  DREW 


SHE  CHOSE  THIS   PLACE   FOR   REST 


CHAPTER  X 

A   BIT   OF   STALKING 

IT  seemed  as  if  the  peaceful  afternoons  of  Logan 
were  ended  forever,  for  the  next  day  the  scene  of 
interruption  was  repeated  under  almost  identical 
circumstances,  save  that  the  tree  under  which  the 
shepherd  sat  was  a  little  larger.  Larger  also  was 
the  man  who  rode  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  the 
east.  The  most  durable  cattle-pony  would  have 
staggered  under  the  bulk  of  that  rider,  and  there 
fore  he  rode  a  great,  patient-eyed  bay,  with  shoul 
ders  worthy  of  shoving  against  a  work-collar;  but 
the  neck  tapered  down  small  behind  a  short  head, 
and  the  legs,  for  all  their  breadth  at  shoulder  and 
hip,  slipped  away  to  small  hoofs,  and  ankles  which 
sloped  sharply  to  the  rear,  the  sure  sign  of  the  fine 
saddle-horse. 

Yet  the  strong  horse  was  winded  by  the  burden 
he  bore,  a  mighty  figure,  deep-chested,  amply 
shouldered,  an  ideal  cavalier  for  the  days  when 
youths  rode  out  in  armour-plate  to  seek  adventures 

6  8l 


82  Trailin' 

and  when  men  of  fifty  still  lifted  the  lance  to  run  a 
"friendly"  course  or  two  in  the  lists. 

At  sight  of  him  Logan  so  far  bestirred  himself 
as  to  uncoil  his  long  legs,  rise,  and  stand  with  one 
shoulder  propped  against  the  tree. 

"Evening,  Mr.  Drew,"  he  called. 

' '  Hello,  Logan.    How's  everything  with  you  ? ' ' 

He  would  have  ridden  on,  but  at  Logan's  reply 
he  checked  his  horse  to  a  slow  walk. 

"Busy.    Lots  of  company  lately,  Mr.  Drew. " 

"Company?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  young  feller  come  along  who  says 
he  wants  to  see  you.  He's  over  there  by  the  creek 
now,  fishin'  I  think.  I  told  him  I'd  holler  if  I  seen 
you,  but  I  guess  you  wouldn't  mind  ridin'  over  that 
way  yourself." 

Drew  brought  his  horse  to  a  halt. 

' '  What  does  he  want  of  me  ? ' ' 

"Dunno.  Something  about  wanting  to  hunt 
and  fish  on  your  streams  here. " 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  him  he  was  welcome  to  do 
what  he  liked?  Must  be  an  Easterner,  Logan." 

"Wants  to  bunk  in  the  old  house,  too.  Seems 
sort  of  interested  in  it. " 

1 '  That  so  ?    What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he  ? " 

"All  right.  A  bit  talky.  Green;  but  he  rides 
damn  well,  an'  he  smokes  good  tobacco. " 


A  Bit  of  Stalking  83 

His  hand  automatically  rose  and  touched  his 
breast  pocket. 

"I'll  go  over  to  him, "  said  Drew,  and  swung  his 
horse  to  the  left,  but  only  to  come  again  to  a  halt. 

He  called  over  his  shoulder:  "What  sort  of  a 
looking  fellow?" 

"Pretty  keen — dark, "  answered  Logan,  slipping 
down  into  his  original  position.  ' '  Thin  face ;  black 
eyes." 

"Ah,  yes,"  murmured  Drew,  and  started  at  a 
trot  for  the  creek. 

Once  more  he  imitated  the  actions  of  Bard  the 
day  before,  however,  for  no  sooner  had  the  trees 
screened  him  thoroughly  from  the  eyes  of  Logan 
than  he  abandoned  his  direct  course  for  the  creek. 
He  swung  from  the  saddle  with  an  ease  surprising 
in  a  man  of  such  age  and  bulk  and  tossed  the  reins 
over  the  head  of  the  horse. 

Then  he  commenced  a  cautious  stalking  through 
the  woods,  silent  as  an  Indian,  stealthy  of  foot, 
with  eyes  that  glanced  sharply  in  all  directions. 
Once  a  twig  snapped  under  foot,  and  after  that 
he  remained  motionless  through  a  long  moment, 
shrinking  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and  scanning 
the  forest  anxiously  in  all  directions.  At  length  he 
ventured  out  again,  grown  doubly  cautious.  In 
this  manner  he  worked  his  way  up  the  course  of 


84  Trailin' 

the  stream,  always  keeping  the  waters  just  within 
sight  but  never  passing  out  on  the  banks,  where  the 
walking  would  have  been  tenfold  easier.  So  he 
came  in  sight  of  a  figure  far  off  through  the  trees. 

If  he  had  been  cautious  before,  he  became  now 
as  still  as  night.  Dropping  to  hands  and  knees,  or 
crouching  almost  as  prone,  he  moved  from  the 
shadow  of  one  tree  to  the  next,  now  and  then  ven 
turing  a  glance  to  make  sure  that  he  was  pursuing 
the  right  course,  until  he  manoeuvred  to  a  point  of 
vantage  which  commanded  a  clear  view  of  Bard. 

The  latter  was  fishing,  with  his  back  to  Drew; 
again  and  again  he  cast  his  fly  out  under  an  over 
hanging  limb  which  shadowed  a  deep  pool.  The 
big  grey  man  set  his  teeth  and  waited  with  the 
patience  of  a  stalking  beast  of  prey,  or  a  cat  which 
will  sit  half  the  day  waiting  for  the  mouse  to  show 
above  the  opening  of  its  hole. 

Apparently  there  was  a  bite  at  length.  The 
pole  bent  almost  double  and  the  reel  played  back 
and  forth  rapidly  as  the  fisher  wore  down  his  vic 
tim.  Finally  he  came  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  dipped  his  net  into  the  water,  and  jerked  it 
up  at  once  bearing  a  twisting,  shining  trout  en 
wrapped  in  the  meshes.  Swinging  about  as  he  did 
so,  Drew  caught  his  first  full  glimpse  of  Anthony's 
face,  and  knew  him  for  the  man  who  had  ridden 


A  Bit  of  Stalking  85 

the  wild  horse  at  Madison  Square  Garden  those 
weeks  before. 

Perhaps  it  was  astonishment  that  moved  the 
big  man — surely  it  could  not  have  been  fear — yet 
he  knelt  there  behind  the  sheltering  tree  grey- 
faced,  wide,  and  blank  of  eye,  as  a  man  might  look 
who  dreamed  and  awoke  to  see  his  vision  standing 
before  him  in  full  sunlit  life.  What  his  expression 
became  then  could  not  be  said,  for  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  his  great  body  shook  with  a 
tremor.  If  this  was  not  fear  it  was  something 
very  like. 

And  very  like  a  man  in  fear  he  stole  back  among 
the  trees  as  cautiously  as  he  had  made  his  approach. 
Resuming  his  horse  he  rode  straight  for  Logan. 

''Couldn't  find  your  young  friend,"  he  said, 
"along  the  creek." 

"Why,"  said  Logan,  "I  can  reach  him  with  a 
holler  from  here,  I  think.  " 

"Never  mind;  just  tell  him  that  he's  welcome  to 
do  what  he  pleases  on  the  place ;  and  he  can  bunk 
down  at  the  house  if  he  wants  to.  I'd  like  to  know 
his  name,  though. " 

"That's  easy.    Anthony  Bard. " 

"Ah,"  said  Drew  slowly,  "Anthony  Bard!" 

/'That's  it,  "  nodded  Logan,  and  fixed  a  curious 
eye  upon  the  big  grey  rider. 


86  Trailin' 

As  if  to  escape  from  that  inquiring  scrutiny, 
Drew  wheeled  his  horse  and  spurred  at  a  sharp 
gallop  up  the  hill,  leaving  Logan  frowning  behind. 

"No  stay  over  night,"  muttered  the  shepherd. 
"No  fooling  about  that  damned  old  shack  of  a 
house;  what's  wrong  with  Drew?" 

He  answered  himself,  for  all  shepherds  are 
forced  by  the  bitter  loneliness  of  their  work  to 
talk  with  themselves.  "The  old  boy's  worried. 
Damned  if  he  isn't!  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  this  Bard 
feller. " 

And  he  loosened  the  revolver  in  its  holster. 

He  might  have  been  even  more  concerned  had 
he  seen  the  redoubled  speed  with  which  Drew 
galloped  as  soon  as  the  hilltop  was  between  him 
and  Logan.  Straight  on  he  pushed  his  horse,  not 
exactly  like  one  who  fled  but  rather  more  like  one 
too  busy  with  consuming  thoughts  to  pay  the 
slightest  heed  to  the  welfare  of  his  mount.  It  was 
a  spent  horse  on  which  he  trotted  late  that  night 
up  to  the  big,  yawning  door  of  his  barn. 

"Where's  Nash? "  he  asked  of  the  man  who  took 
his  horse. 

"Playing  a  game  with  the  boys  in  the  bunk- 
house,  sir. " 

So  past  the  bunk-house  Drew  went  on  his  way 
to  his  dwelling,  knocked,  and  threw  open  the  door. 


A  Bit  of  Stalking  87 

Inside,  a  dozen  men,  seated  at  or  standing  around 
a  table,  looked  up. 

"Nash!" 

"Here." 

"On  the  jump,  Nash.    I'm  in  a  hurry. " 

There  rose  a  man  of  a  build  much  prized  in 
pugilistic  circles.  In  those  same  circles  he  would 
have  been  described  as  a  fellow  with  a  fighting 
face  and  a  heavy-weight  above  the  hips  and  a 
light-weight  below — a  handsome  fellow,  except 
that  his  eyes  were  a  little  too  small  and  his  lips  a 
trifle  too  thin.  He  rose  now  in  the  midst  of  a 
general  groan  of  dismay,  and  scooped  in  a  con 
siderable  stack  of  gold  as  well  as  several  bright 
piles  of  silver;  he  was  undoubtedly  taking  the 
glory  of  the  game  with  him. 

"Is  this  square? "  growled  one  of  the  men  clench 
ing  his  fist  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

The  sardonic  smile  hardened  on  the  lips  of  Nash 
as  he  answered:  "Before  you've  been  here  much 
longer,  Pete,  you'll  find  out  that  about  everything 
I  do  is  square.  Sorry  to  leave  you,  boys,  before 
you're  broke,  but  orders  is  orders. " 

"But  one  more  hand  first, "  pleaded  Pete. 

"You  poor  fool,"  snarled  Nash,  "d'you  think 
I'll  take  a  chance  on  keepin'  him  waiting?" 

The  last  of  his  winnings  passed  with  a  melodious 


88  Trailin' 

jingling  into  his  pockets  and  he  went  hurriedly 
out  of  the  bunk-house  and  up  to  the  main  building. 
There  he  found  Drew  in  the  room  which  the 
rancher  used  as  an  office,  and  stood  at  the  door 
hat  in  hand. 

"Come  in;  sit  down,"  said  "him."  "Been 
taking  the  money  from  the  boys  again,  Steve? 
I  thought  I  talked  with  you  about  that  a 'month 
ago?" 

"It's  this  way,  Mr.  Drew,"  explained  Nash, 
"with  me  stayin'  away  from  the  cards  is  like  a 
horse  stayin'  off  its  feed.  Besides,  I  done  the 
square  thing  by  the  lot  of  those  short-horns. " 

"How's  that?" 

"1  showed  'em  my  hand. " 

"Told  them  you  were  a  professional  gambler?" 

"Sure.  I  explained  they  didn't  have  no  chance 
against  me. " 

"And  of  course  that  made  them  throw  every 
cent  they  had  against  you?" 

"Maybe." 

"It  can't  goon,  Nash." 

"Look here,  Mr.  Drew.  I  told  'em  that  I  wasn't 
a  gambler  but  just  a  gold-digger. " 

The  big  man  could  not  restrain  his  smile,  though 
it  came  like  a  shadow  of  mirth  rather  than  the 
sunlight. 


A  Bit  of  Stalking  89 

"After  all,  they  might  as  well  lose  it  to  you  as 
to  someone  else. " 

"Sure,"  grinned  Nash,  "it  keeps  it  in  the  family, 
eh?" 

"But  one  of  these  days,  Steve,  crooked  cards 
will  be  the  end  of  you. " 

"I'm  still  pretty  fast  on  the  draw,"  said  Steve 
sullenly. 

"All  right.  That's  your  business.  Now  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  some  of  mine. " 

"Real  work?" 

"Your  own  line." 

"That,"  said  Nash,  with  a  smile  of  infinite 
meaning,  "sounds  like  the  dinner  bell  to  me.  Let 
her  go,  sir!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   QUEST   BEGINS 

"You  know  the  old  place  on  the  other  side  of 
the  range?" 

' '  Like  a  book.    I  got  pet  names  for  all  the  trees. ' ' 

"There's  a  man  there  I  want. " 

"Logan?" 

"No.    His  name  is  Bard. " 

"H-m!  Any  relation  of  the  old  bird  that  was 
partners  with  you  back  about  the  year  one?" 

"I  want  Anthony  Bard  brought  here,"  said 
Drew,  entirely  overlooking  the  question. 

' '  Easy.  I  can  make  the  trip  in  a  buckboard  and 
I'll  dump  him  in  the  back  of  it. " 

"No.    He's  got  to  ride  here,  understand?" 

"A  dead  man,"  said  Nash  calmly,  "ain't  much 
good  on  a  hoss. " 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Drew,  his  voice  lowering 
to  a  sort  of  musical  thunder,  "if  you  harm  a  hair 
of  this  lad's  head  I'll — I'll  break  you  in  two  with 
my  own  hands. " 

90 


The  Quest  Begins  91 

And  he  made  a  significant  gesture  as  if  he  were 
snapping  a  twig  between  his  fingers.  Nash  mois 
tened  his  lips,  then  his  square,  powerful  jaw  jutted 
out. 

11  Which  the  general  idea  is  me  doing  baby  talk 
and  sort  of  hypnotizing  this  Bard  feller  into  coming 
along?" 

"More  than  that.  He's  got  to  be  brought  here 
alive,  untouched,  and  placed  in  that  chair  tied  so 
that  he  can't  move  hand  or  foot  for  ten  minutes 
while  I  talk." 

"Nice,  quiet  day  you  got  planned  for  me,  Mr. 
Drew." 

The  grey  man  considered  thoughtfully. 

"Now  and  then  you've  told  me  of  a  girl  at  El- 
dara — I  think  her  name  is  Sally  Fortune?" 

"Right.  She  begins  where  the  rest  of  the  calico 
leaves  off." 

"H-m!  that  sounds  familiar,  somehow.  Well, 
Steve,  you've  said  that  if  you  had  a  good  start 
you  think  the  girl  would  marry  you. " 

"I  think  she  might." 

"She  pretty  fond  of  you?" 

"She  knows  that  if  I  can't  have  her  I'm  fast 
enough  to  keep  everyone  else  away. " 

' '  I  see.  A  process  of  elimination  with  you  as  the 
eliminator.  Rather  an  odd  courtship,  Steve?" 


92  Trailin' 

The  cowpuncher  grew  deadly  serious. 

"You  see,  I  love  her.  There  ain't  no  way  of 
bucking  out  of  that.  So  do  nine  out  of  ten  of  all 
the  boys  that  've  seen  her.  Which  one  will  she 
pick?  That's  the  question  we  all  keep  askin', 
because  of  all  the  contrary,  freckle-faced  devils 
with  the  heart  of  a  man  an'  the  smile  of  a  woman, 
Sally  has  'em  all  beat  from  the  drop  of  the  barrier. 
One  feller  has  money;  another  has  looks;  another 
has  a  funny  line  of  talk.  But  I've  got  the  fastest 
gun.  So  Sally  sees  she's  due  for  a  complete  outfit 
of  black  mournin'  if  she  marries  another  man 
while  I'm  alive;  an'  that  keeps  her  thinkin'.  But 
if  I  had  the  price  of  a  start  in  the  world — why, 
maybe  she'd  take  a  long  look  at  me. " 

"Would  she  call  one  thousand  dollars  in  cash 
a  start  in  the  world — and  your  job  as  foreman 
of  my  place,  with  twice  the  salary  you  have 
now?" 

Steve  Nash  wiped  his  forehead. 

He  said  huskily:  "A  joke  along  this  line  don't 
bring  no  laugh  from  me,  governor. " 

"I  mean  it,  Steve.  Get  Anthony  Bard  tied 
hand  and  foot  into  this  house  so  that  I  can  talk 
to  him  safely  for  ten  minutes,  and  you'll  have 
everything  I  promise.  Perhaps  more.  But  that 
depends. " 


The  Quest  Begins  93 

The  blunt-fingered  hand  of  Nash  stole  across 
the  table. 

"If  it's  a  go,  shake,  Mr.  Drew.  " 

A  mighty  hand  fell  in  his,  and  under  the  pressure 
he  set  his  teeth.  Afterward  he  covertly  moved  his 
fingers  and  sighed  with  relief  to  see  that  no  per 
manent  harm  had  been  done. 

"Me  speakin'  personal,  Mr.  Drew,  I'd  of  give 
a  lot  to  seen  you  when  you  was  ridin'  the  range. 
This  Bard — he'll  be  here  before  sunset  to-morrow. " 

"Don't  jump  to  conclusions,  Steve.  I've  an 
idea  that  before  you  count  your  thousand  you'll 
think  that  you've  been  underpaid.  That's 
straight. " 

"This  Bard  is  something  of  a  man?" 

"I  can  say  that  without  stopping  to  think." 

"Texas?" 

"No.  He's  a  tenderfoot,  but  he  can  ride  a  horse 
as  if  he  was  sewed  to  the  skin,  and  I've  an  idea 
that  he  can  do  other  things  up  to  the  same  stand 
ard.  If  you  can  find  two  or  three  men  who  have 
silent  tongues  and  strong  hands,  you'd  better  take 
them  along.  I'll  pay  their  wages,  and  big  ones. 
You  can  name  your  price. " 

But  Nash  was  frowning. 

"Now  and  then  I  talk  to  the  cards  a  bit,  Mr. 
Drew,  and  you'll  hear  fellers  say  some  pretty 


94  Trailin' 

rough  things  about  me,  but  I've  never  asked  for  no 
odds  against  any  man.  I'm  not  going  to  start  now." 

"You're  a  hard  man,  Steve,  but  so  am  I;  and 
hard  men  are  the  kind  I  take  to.  I  know  that 
you're  the  best  foreman  who  ever  rode  this  range 
and  I  know  that  when  you  start  things  you  gen 
erally  finish  them.  All  that  I  ask  is  that  you  bring 
Bard  to  me  in  this  house.  The  way  you  do  it  is 
your  own  problem.  Drunk  or  drugged,  I  don't 
care  how,  but  get  him  here  unharmed.  Under 
stand?" 

"Mr.  Drew,  you  can  start  figurin'  what  you 
want  to  say  to  him  now.  I'll  get  him  here — safe! 
And  then  Sally " 

"If  money  will  buy  her  you'll  have  me  behind 
you  when  you  bid. " 

"When  shall  I  start?" 

"Now." 

"So-long,  then." 

He  rose  and  passed  hastily  from  the  room,  lean 
ing  forward  from  the  hips  like  a  man  who  is  making 
a  start  in  a  foot-race. 

Straight  up  the  stairs  he  went  to  his  room,  for 
the  foreman  lived  in  the  big  house  of  the  rancher. 
There  he  took  a  quantity  of  equipment  from  a 
closet  and  flung  it  on  the  bed.  Over  three  selec 
tions  he  lingered  long. 


The  Quest  Begins  95 

The  first  was  the  cartridge  belt,  and  he  tried 
over  several  with  conscientious  care  until  he  found 
the  one  which  received  the  cartridges  with  the 
greatest  ease.  He  could  flip  them  out  in  the  night, 
automatically  as  a  pianist  fingers  the  scale  in  the 
dark. 

Next  he  examined  lariats  painfully,  inch  by  inch, 
as  though  he  were  going  out  to  rope  the  stanchest 
steer  that  ever  roamed  the  range.  Already  he 
knew  that  those  ropes  were  sound  and  true  through 
out,  but  he  took  no  chances  now.  One  of  the 
ropes  he  discarded  because  one  or  two  strands  in 
it  were,  or  might  be,  a  trifle  frayed.  The  others  he 
took  alternately  and  whirled  with  a  broad  loop, 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Of  the  set  one 
was  a  little  more  supple,  a  little  more  durable,  it 
seemed.  This  he  selected  and  coiled  swiftly. 

Last  of  all  he  lingered — and  longest — over  his 
revolvers.  Six  in  all,  he  set  them  in  a  row  along 
the  bed  and  without  delay  threw  out  two  to 
begin  with.  Then  he  fingered  the  others,  tried 
their  weight  and  balance,  slipped  cartridges  into 
the  cylinders  and  extracted  them  again,  whirled 
the  cylinders,  examined  the  minutest  parts  of  the 
actions. 

They  were  all  such  guns  as  an  expert  would  have 
turned  over  with  shining  eyes,  but  finally  he  threw 


96  Trailin* 

one  aside  into  the  discard;  the  cylinder  revolved 
just  a  little  too  hard.  Another  was  abandoned 
after  much  handling  of  the  remaining  three  because 
to  the  delicate  touch  of  Nash  it  seemed  that  the 
weight  of  the  barrel  was  a  gram  more  than  in  the 
other  two;  but  after  this  selection  it  seemed  that 
there  was  no  possible  choice  between  the  final  twro. 

So  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and  went 
through  a  series  of  odd  gymnastics.  Each  gun  in 
turn  he  placed  in  the  holster  and  then  jerked  it  out, 
spinning  it  on  the  trigger  guard  around  his  second 
finger,  while  his  left  hand  shot  diagonally  across  his 
body  and  "fanned"  the  hammer.  Still  he  could 
not  make  his  choice,  but-he  would  not  abandon  the 
effort.  It  was  an  old  maxim  with  him  that  there  is 
in  all  the  world  one  gun  which  is  the  best  of  all  and 
with  which  even  a  novice  can  become  a  "killer. " 

He  tried  walking  away,  whirling  as  he  made  his 
draw,  and  levelling  the  gun  on  the  door-knob. 
Then  without  moving  his  hand,  he  lowered  his 
head  and  squinted  down  the  sights.  In  each  case 
the  bead  was  drawn  to  a  centre  shot.  Last  of  all 
he  weighed  each  gun ;  one  seemed  a  trifle  lighter — 
the  merest  shade  lighter  than  the  other.  This  he 
slipped  into  the  holster  and  carried  the  rest  of  his 
apparatus  back  to  the  closet  from  which  he  had 
taken  it. 


The  Quest  Begins  97 

Still  the  preparation  had  not  ended.  Filling  his 
cartridge  belt,  every  cartridge  was  subject  to  a 
rigid  inspection.  A  full  half  hour  was  wasted  in  this 
manner.  Wasted,  because  he  rejected  not  one  of 
the  many  he  examined.  Yet  he  seemed  happier 
after  having  made  his  selection,  and  went  down 
the  stairs,  humming  softly. 

Out  to  the  barn  he  went,  lantern  in  hand.  This 
time  he  made  no  comparison  of  horses  but  went 
directly  to  an  ugly-headed  roan,  long  of  leg,  vicious 
of  eye,  thin-shouldered,  and  with  hips  that  slanted 
sharply  down.  No  one  with  a  knowledge  of  fine 
horse-flesh  could  have  looked  on  this  brute  without 
aversion.  It  did  not  have  even  size  in  its  favour. 
A  wild,  free  spirit,  perhaps,  might  be  the  reason; 
but  the  animal  stood  with  hanging  head  and  pen 
dant  lower  lip.  One  eye  was  closed  and  the  other 
only  half  opened.  A  blind  affection,  then,  made 
him  go  to  this  horse  first  of  all. 

No,  his  greeting  was  to  jerk  his  knee  sharply 
into  the  ribs  of  the  roan,  which  answered  with  a 
grunt  and  swung  its  head  around  with  bared  teeth, 
like  an  angry  dog.  ' '  Damn  your  eyes ! "  roared  the 
hoarse  voice  of  Steve  Nash,  "stand  still  or  I'll 
knock  you  for  a  goal!" 

The  ears  of  the  mustang  flattened  close  to  its 
neck  and  a  devil  of  hate  came  up  in  its  eyes,  but  it 


98  Trailin' 

stood  quiet,  while  Nash  went  about  at  a  judicious 
distance  and  examined  all  the  vital  points.  The 
hoofs  were  sound,  the  backbone  prominent,  but 
not  a  high  ridge  from  famine  or  much  hard  riding, 
and  the  indomitable  hate  in  the  eyes  of  the  mustang 
seemed  to  please  the  cowpuncher. 

It  was  a  struggle  to  bridle  the  beast,  which  was 
accomplished  only  by  grinding  the  points  of  his 
knuckles  into  a  tender  part  of  the  jowl  to  make  the 
locked  teeth  open. 

In  saddling,  the  knee  came  into  play  again, 
rapping  the  ribs  of  the  brute  repeatedly  before  the 
wind,  which  swelled  out  the  chest  to  false  propor 
tions,  was  expelled  in  a  sudden  grunt,  and  the 
cinch  whipped  up  taut.  After  that  Nash  dodged 
the  flying  heels,  chose  his  time,  and  vaulted  into 
the  saddle. 

The  mustang  trotted  quietly  out  of  the  barn. 
Perhaps  he  had  had  his  fill  of  bucking  on  that 
treacherous,  slippery  wooden  floor,  but  once  out 
side  he  turned  loose  the  full  assortment  of  the 
cattle-pony's  tricks.  It  was  only  ten  minutes, 
but  while  it  lasted  the  cursing  of  Nash  was  loud 
and  steady,  mixed  with  the  crack  of  his  murderous 
quirt  against  the  roan's  flanks.  The  bucking 
ended  as  quickly  as  it  had  begun,  and  they  started 
at  a  long  canter  over  the  trail. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   FIRST   DAY 

MILE  after  mile  of  the  rough  trail  fell  behind 
him,  and  still  the  pony  shambled  along  at  a  loose 
trot  or  a  swinging  canter;  the  steep  upgrades  it 
took  at  a  steady  jog  and  where  the  slopes  pitched 
sharply  down,  it  wound  among  the  rocks  with  a 
faultless  sureness  of  foot. 

Certainly  the  choice  of  Nash  was  well  made. 
An  Eastern  horse  of  blood  over  a  level  course 
could  have  covered  the  same  distance  in  half  the 
time,  but  it  would  have  broken  down  after  ten 
miles  of  that  hard  trail. 

Dawn  came  while  they  wound  over  the  crest  of 
the  range,  and  with  the  sun  in  their  faces  they 
took  the  downgrade.  It  was  well  into  the  morn 
ing  before  Nash  reached  Logan.  He  forced  from 
his  eye  the  contempt  which  all  cattlemen  feel  for 
sheepherders. 

"I  s'pose  you're  here  askin'  after  Bard?"  began 
Logan  without  the  slightest  prelude. 

99 


ioo  Trailin' 

"Bard?    Who's  he?" 

Logan  considered  the  other  with  a  sardonic 
smile. 

"Maybe  you  been  ridin'  all  night  jest  for 
fun?" 

"If  you  start  usin'  your  tongue  on  me,  Logan 
you'll  wear  out  the  snapper  on  it.  I'm  on  my  way 
to  the  A  Circle  Y.  " 

"Listen;  I'm  all  for  old  man  Drew.  You  know 
that.  Tell  me  what  Bard  has  on  him?" 

"Never  heard  the  name  before.  Did  he  rustle 
a  couple  of  your  sheep  ? ' ' 

Logan  went  on  patiently:  "I  knew  something 
was  wrong  when  Drew  was  here  yesterday  but  I 
didn't  think  it  was  as  bad  as  this. " 

"What  did  Drew  do  yesterday?" 

"Came  up  as  usual  to  potter  around  the  old 
house,  I  guess,  but  when  he  heard  about  Bard 
bein'  here  he  changed  his  mind  sudden  and  went 
home. " 

"That's  damn  queer.  What  sort  of  a  lookin' 
feller  is  this  Bard?" 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know,  eh?"  queried  Logan 
ironically.  "I  don't  suppose  the  old  man  de 
scribed  him  before  you  started,  maybe?" 

"Logan,  you  poor  old  hornless  maverick,  d'you 
think  I'm  on  somebody's  trail?  Don't  you  know 


The  First  Day  101 

I've  been  through  with  that  sort  of  game  for  a  hell 
of  a  while?" 

"When  rocks  turn  into  ham  and  eggs  I'll  trust 
you,  Steve.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  done  to  Bard, 
anyway.  Yesterday,  after  he  found  that  Drew 
had  been  here  and  gone  he  seemed  sort  of  upset; 
tried  to  keep  it  from  me,  but  I'm  too  much  used 
to  judgin'  changes  of  weather  to  be  fooled  by  any 
tenderfoot  that  ever  used  school  English.  Then 
he  hinted  around  about  learnin'  the  way  to  Eldara, 
because  he  knows  that  town  is  pretty  close  to 
Drew's  place,  I  guess.  I  told  him;  sure  I  did. 
He  should  of  gone  due  west,  but  I  sent  him  south. 
There  is  a  south  trail,  only  it  takes  about  three 
days  to  get  to  Eldara. " 

' '  Maybe  you  think  that  interests  me.    It  don't. " 

Logan  overlooked  this  rejoinder,  saying:  "I? 
it  his  scalp  you're  after?" 

"Your  ideas  are  like  nest-eggs,  Logan,  an'  yot 
set  over  'em  like  a  hen.  They  look  like  eggs ;  they 
feel  like  eggs;  but  they  don't  never  hatch.  That's 
the  way  with  your  ideas.  They  look  all  right ;  they 
sound  all  right;  but  they  don't  mean  nothin'. 
So-long." 

But  Logan  merely  chuckled  wisely.  He  had 
been  long  on  the  range. 

As  Nash  turned  his  pony  and  trotted  off  in  the 


Trailin' 


direction  of  the  A  Circle  Y  ranch,  the  sheepherder 
called  after  him:  "What  you  say  cuts  both  ways, 
Steve.  This  feller  Bard  looks  like  a  tenderfoot; 
he  sounds  like  a  tenderfoot;  but  he  ain't  a  tender 
foot." 

Feeling  that  this  parting  shot  gave  him  the 
honours  of  the  meeting,  he  turned  away  whistling 
with  such  spirit  that  one  of  his  dogs,  overhearing, 
stood  still  and  gazed  at  his  master  with  his  head 
cocked  wisely  to  one  side. 

His  eastern  course  Nash  pursued  for  a  mile  or 
more,  and  then  swung  sharp  to  the  south.  He  was 
weary,  like  his  horse,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to 
start  a  sudden  burst  of  speed.  He  let  the  pony  go 
on  at  the  same  tireless  jog,  clinging  like  a  bull 
dog  to  the  trail. 

About  midday  he  sighted  a  small  house  cuddled 
into  a  hollow  of  the  hills  and  made  toward  it.  As 
he  dismounted,  a  tow-headed,  spindling  boy 
lounged  out  of  the  doorway  and  stood  with  his 
hands  shoved  carelessly  into  his  little  overall 
pockets. 

"Hello,  young  feller." 

"'Lo,  stranger." 

"What's  the  chance  of  bunking  here  for  three 
or  four  hours  and  gettin'  a  good  feed  for  the 
hoss?" 


The  First  Day  103 

"Never  better.  Gimme  the  hoss;  111  put  him 
up  in  the  shed.  Feed  him  grain?" 

"No,  you  won't  put  him  up.  Ill  tend  to 
that." 

"Looks  like  a  bad 'un." 

"That 'sit." 

"But  a  sure  goer,  eh?" 

"Yep. 

He  led  the  pony  to  the  shed,  unsaddled  him,  and 
gave  him  a  small  feed.  The  horse  first  rolled  on 
the  dirt  floor  and  then  started  methodically  on  his 
fodder.  Having  made  sure  that  his  mount  was 
not  "off  his  feed,"  Nash  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
strolled  back  to  the  house  with  the  boy. 

"Where's  the  folks?"  he  asked. 

"Ma's  sick,  a  little,  and  didn't  get  up  to-day. 
Pa's  down  to  the  corral,  cussing  mad.  But  I  can 
cook  you  up  some  chow. " 

"All  right  son.  I  got  a  dollar  here  that'll  buy 
you  a  pretty  good  store  knife." 

The  boy  flushed  so  red  that  by  contrast  his 
straw  coloured  hair  seemed  positively  white. 

"Maybe  you  want  to  pay  me?"  he  suggested 
fiercely.  "Maybe  you  think  we're  squatters  that 
run  a  hotel?  " 

Recognizing  the  true  Western  breed  even  in  this 
small  edition,  Nash  grinned. 


104  Trailin' 

"Speakin'  man  to  man,  son,  I  didn't  think  that, 
but  I  thought  I'd  sort  of  feel  my  way. " 

"Which  I'll  say  you're  lucky  you  didn't  try  to 
feel  your  way  with  pa;  not  the  way  he's  feelin' 
now." 

In  the  shack  of  the  house  he  placed  the  best 
chair  for  Nash  and  set  about  frying  ham  and 
making  coffee.  This  with  crackers,  formed  the 
meal.  He  watched  Nash  eat  for  a  moment  of 
solemn  silence  and  then  the  foreman  looked  up  to 
catch  a  meditative  chuckle  from  the  youngster. 

"Let  me  in  on  the  joke,  son. " 

"Nothin'.    I  was  just  thinkin'  of  pa." 

"What's  he  sore  about?  Come  out  short  at 
poker  lately?" 

"No;  he  lost  a  hoss.    Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

He  explained :  ' '  He's  lost  his  only  standin'  joke, 
and  now  the  laugh's  on  pa!" 

Nash  sipped  his  coffee  and  waited.  On  the 
mountain  desert  one  does  not  draw  out  a  narrator 
with  questions. 

' '  There  was  a  feller  come  along  early  this  mornin' 
on  a  lame  hoss, "  the  story  began.  ' '  He  was  a  sure 
enough  tenderfoot — leastways  he  looked  it  an*  he 
talked  it,  but  he  wasn't." 

The  familiarity  of  this  description  made  Steve 
sit  up  a  trifle  straighter. 


The  First  Day  105 

"Was  he  a  ringer?" 

"Maybe.  I  dunno.  Pa  meets  him  at  the  door 
and  asks  him  in.  What  d'you  think  this  feller 
comes  back  with?" 

The  boy  paused  to  remember  and  then  with 
twinkling  eyes  he  mimicked :  ' ' '  That's  very  good  of 
you,  sir,  but  I'll  only  stop  to  make  a  trade  with 
you — this  horse  and  some  cash  to  boot  for  a  dur 
able  mount  out  of  your  corral.  The  brute  has 
gone  lame,  you  see.' 

"Pa  waited  and  scratched  his  head  while  these 
here  words  sort  of  sunk  in.  Then  says  very  smooth : 
Til  let  you  take  the  best  hoss  I've  got,  an'  I  won't 
ask  much  cash  to  boot.' 

' '  I  begin  wonderin'  what  pa  was  drivin '  at,  but 
[  didn't  say  no  thin' — jest  held  myself  together 
and  waited. 

"Look  over  there  to  the  corral,'  says  pa,  and 
pointed.  'They's  a  hoss  that  ought  to  take  you 
wherever  you  want  to  go.  It's  the  best  hoss  I've 
ever  had.' 

' '  It  was  the  best  horse  pa  ever  had,  too.  It  was 
a  piebald  pinto  called  Jo,  after  my  cousin  Josiah, 
who's  jest  a  plain  bad  un  and  raises  hell  when 
there's  any  excuse.  The  piebald,  he  didn't  even 
need  an  excuse.  You  see,  he's  one  of  them  hosses 
that  likes  company.  When  he  leaves  the  corral  he 


106  Trailin' 

likes  to  have  another  hoss  for  a  runnin'  mate  and 
he  was  jest  as  tame  as  anything.  I  could  ride  him; 
anybody  could  ride  him.  But  if  you  took  him 
outside  the  bars  of  the  corral  without  company, 
first  thing  he  done  was  to  see  if  one  of  the  other 
hosses  was  comin'  out  to  join  him.  When  he  seen 
that  he  was  all  laid  out  to  make  a  trip  by  himself 
he  jest  nacherally  started  in  to  raise  hell.  Which 
Jo  can  raise  more  hell  for  his  size  than  any  hoss  I 
ever  seen. 

"He's  what  you  call  an  eddicated  bucker.  He 
don't  fool  around  with  no  pauses.  He  jest  starts 
in  and  figgers  out  a  situation  and  then  he  gets  busy 
slidin'  the  gent  that's  on  him  off 'n  the  saddle.  An' 
he  always  used  to  win  out.  In  fact,  he  was  known 
for  it  all  around  these  parts.  He  begun  nice  and 
easy,  but  he  worked  up  like  a  fiddler  playin'  a 
favourite  piece,  and  the  end  was  the  rider  lyin'  on 
the  ground. 

"Whenever  the  boys  around  here  wanted  any 
excitement  they  used  to  come  over  and  try  their 
hands  with  Jo.  We  used  to  keep  a  pile  of  arnica 
and  stuff  like  that  around  to  rub  them  up  with 
and  tame  down  the  bruises  after  Jo  laid  'em  cold 
on  the  ground.  There  wasn't  never  anybody  could 
ride  that  hoss  when  he  was  started  out  alone. 

"Well,  this  tenderfoot,  he  looks  over  the  hoss 


The  First  Day  107 

in  the  corral  and  says :  'That's  a  pretty  fine  mount, 
it  seems  to  me.  What  do  you  want  to  boot  ? ' 

"  'Aw,  twenty-five  dollars  is  enough, '  says  pa. 

'"All  right,'  says  the  tenderfoot,  'here's  the 
money.' 

''And  he  counts  it  out  in  pa's  hand. 

"He  says:  'What  a  little  beauty!  It  would  be 
a  treat  to  see  him  work  on  a  polo  field.' 

"Pa  says:  'It'd  be  a  treat  to  see  this  hoss  work 
anywhere. ' 

"Then  he  steps  on  my  foot  to  make  me  wipe  the 
grin  off'n  my  face. 

"Down  goes  the  tenderfoot  and  takes  his  saddle 
and  flops  it  on  the  piebald  pinto,  and  the  piebald 
was  jest  as  nice  as  milk.  Then  he  leads  him  out'n 
the  corral  and  gets  on. 

"First  the  pinto  takes  a  look  over  his  shoulder 
like  he  was  waiting  for  one  of  his  pals  among  the 
hosses  to  come  along,  but  he  didn't  see  none. 
Then  the  circus  started.  An'  b'lieve  me,  it  was 
some  circus.  Jo  hadn't  had  much  action  for  some 
time,  an'  he  must  have  used  the  wait  thinkin'  up 
new  ways  of  raisin'  hell. 

"There  ain't  enough  words  in  the  Bible  to  de 
scribe  what  he  done.  Which  maybe  you  sort  of 
gather  that  he  had  to  keep  on  performin',  because 
the  tenderfoot  was  still  in  the  saddle.  He  was. 


io8  Trailin' 

An'  he  never  pulled  leather.  No,  sir,  he  never 
touched  the  buckin'  strap,  but  jest  sat  there  with 
his  teeth  set  and  his  lips  twistin'  back — the  same 
smile  he  had  when  he  got  into  the  saddle.  But 
pretty  soon  I  s'pose  Jo  had  a  chance  to  figure  out 
that  it  didn't  do  him  no  particular  harm  to  be 
alone. 

"The  minute  he  seen  that  he  stopped  fightin' 
and  started  off  at  a  gallop  the  way  the  tenderfoot 
wanted  him  to  go,  which  was  over  there. 

'"Damn  my  eyes!'  says  pa,  an'  couldn't  do 
nuthin'  but  just  stand  there  repeatin'  that  with 
variations  because  with  Jo  gone  there  wouldn't  be 
no  drawin'  card  to  get  the  boys  around  the  house 
no  more.  But  you're  lookin'  sort  of  sleepy, 
stranger  ? ' ' 

"I  am,"  answered  Nash. 

"Well,  if  you'd  seen  that  show  you  wouldn't  be 
thinkin'  of  sleep.  Not  for  some  time.  " 

"Maybe  not,  but  the  point  is  I  didn't  see  it.  D' 
you  mind  if  I  turn  in  on  that  bunk  over  there?" 

"Help  yourself,"  said  the  boy.  "What  time 
d'you  want  me  to  wake  you  up?" 

"Never  mind;  I  wake  up  automatic.  S'long, 
Bud." 

He  stretched  out  on  the  blankets  and  was  in 
stantly  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   TOUCH    OF    CRIMSON 

AT  the  end  of  three  hours  he  awoke  as  sharply 
as  though  an  alarm  were  clamouring  at  his  ear. 
There  was  no  elaborate  preparation  for  renewed 
activities.  A  single  yawn  and  stretch  and  he  was 
again  on  his  feet.  Since  the  boy  was  not  in  sight 
he  cooked  himself  an  enormous  meal,  devoured  it, 
and  went  out  to  the  mustang. 

The  roan  greeted  him  with  a  volley  from  both 
heels  that  narrowly  missed  the  head  of  Nash,  but 
the  cowpuncher  merely  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Feelm'  fit  agin,  eh,  damn  your  soul?"  he  said 
genially,  and  picking  up  a  bit  of  board,  fallen  from 
the  side  of  the  shed,  he  smote  the  mustang  might 
ily  along  the  ribs.  The  mustang,  as  if  it  recognized 
the  touch  of  the  master,  pricked  up  one  ear  and 
side-stepped.  The  brief  rest  had  filled  it  with  all 
the  old,  vicious  energy. 

For  once  more,  as  soon  as  they  rode  clear  of  the 
door,  there  ensued  a  furious  struggle  between  man 

109 


no  Trailin' 

and  beast.  The  man  won,  as  always,  and  the  roan, 
dropping  both  ears  flat  against  its  neck,  trotted 
sullenly  out  across  the  hills. 

In  that  monotony  of  landscape,  one  mile  exactly 
like  the  other,  no  landmarks  to  guide  him,  no  trail 
to  follow,  however  faintly  worn,  it  was  strange  to 
see  the  cowpuncher  strike  out  through  the  vast 
distances  of  the  mountain-desert  with  as  much 
confidence  as  if  he  were  travelling  on  a  paved  street 
in  a  city.  He  had  not  even  a  compass  to  direct 
him  but  he  seemed  to  know  his  way  as  surely  as 
the  birds  know  the  untracked  paths  of  the  air  in 
the  seasons  of  migration. 

Straight  on  through  the  afternoon  and  during 
the  long  evening  he  kept  his  course  at  the  same 
unvarying  dog-trot  until  the  flush  of  the  sunset 
faded  to  a  stern  grey  and  the  purple  hills  in  the 
distance  turned  blue  with  shadows.  Then,  catch 
ing  the  glimmer  of  a  light  on  a  hillside,  he  turned 
toward  it  to  put  up  for  the  night. 

In  answer  to  his  call  a  big  man  with  a  lantern 
came  to  the  door  and  raised  his  light  until  it  shone 
on  a  red,  bald  head  and  a  portly  figure.  His  wel 
come  was  neither  hearty  nor  cold;  hospitality  is 
expected  in  the  mountain-desert.  So  Nash  put  up 
his  horse  in  the  shed  and  came  back  to  the  house. 

The   meal   was   half   over,    but   two   girls  im- 


A  Touch  of  Crimson  m 

mediately  set  a  plate  heaped  with  fried  potatoes 
and  bacon  and  flanked  by  a  mighty  cup  of  jet- 
black  coffee  on  one  side  and  a  pile  of  yellow  biscuits 
on  the  other.  He  nodded  to  them,  grunted  by  way 
of  expressing  thanks,  and  sat  down  to  eat. 

Beside  the  tall  father  and  the  rosy-faced  mother, 
the  family  consisted  of  the  two  girls,  one  of  them 
with  her  hair  twisted  severely  close  to  her  head, 
wearing  a  man's  blue  cotton  shirt  with  the  sleeves 
rolled  up  to  a  pair  of  brown  elbows.  Evidently  she 
was  the  boy  of  the  family  and  to  her  fell  the  duty 
of  performing  the  innumerable  chores  of  the  ranch, 
for  her  hands  were  thick  with  work  and  the  tips 
of  the  fingers  blunted.  Also  she  had  that  calm, 
self-satisfied  eye  which  belongs  to  the  workingman 
who  knows  that  he  has  earned  his  meal. 

Her  sister  monopolized  all  the  beauty  and  the 
grace,  not  that  she  was  either  very  pretty  or  ex 
tremely  graceful,  but  she  was  instinct  with  the 
challenge  of  femininity  like  a  rare  scent.  It  lin 
gered  about  her,  it  enveloped  her  ways;  it  gave  a 
light  to  her  eyes  and  made  her  smile  exquisite. 
Her  clothes  were  not  of  much  finer  material  than 
her  sister's,  but  they  were  cut  to  fit,  and  a  bow  of 
crimson  ribbon  at  her  throat  was  as  effective  in 
that  environment  as  the  most  costly  orchids  on  an 
evening  gown. 


ii2  Trailin' 

She  was  armed  in  pride  this  night,  talking  only 
to  her  mother,  and  then  in  monosyllables  alone. 
At  first  it  occurred  to  Steve  that  his  coming  had 
made  her  self-conscious,  but  he  soon  discovered 
that  her  pride  was  directed  at  the  third  man  at  the 
table.  She  at  least  maintained  a  pretence  of  eating, 
but  he  made  not  even  a  sham,  sitting  miserably, 
his  mouth  hard  set,  his  eyes  shadowed  by  a  tre 
mendous  frown.  At  length  he  shoved  back  his 
chair  with  such  violence  that  the  table  trembled. 

"Well, "  he  rumbled,  "I  guess  this  lets  me  out. 
S'long." 

And  he  strode  heavily  from  the  room ;  a  moment 
later  his  cursing  came  back  to  them  as  he  rode  into 
the  night. 

"Takers  it  kind  of  hard,  don't  he?"  said  the 
father. 

And  the  mother  murmured :  ' '  Poor  Ralph ! " 

"So  you  went  an'  done  it?"  said  the  mannish 
girl  to  her  sister. 

"What  of  it?"  snapped  the  other. 

"He's  too  good  for  you,  that's  what  of  it. " 

' '  Girls ! ' '  exclaimed  the  mother  anxiously.  ' '  Re 
member  we  got  a  guest ! ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  she  of  the  strong  brown  arms,  "I 
guess  we  can't  tell  him  nothin' ;  I  guess  he  had  eyes 
to  be  seein'  what's  happened. " 


A  Touch  of  Crimson  113 

She  turned  calmly  to  Steve. 

"Lizzie  turned  down  Ralph  Boardman — poor 
feller!" 

"Sue!"  cried  the  other  girl. 

"Well,  after  you  done  it,  are  you  ashamed  to 
have  it  talked  about?  You  make  me  sore,  I'll  tell 
a  man!" 

"That's  enough,  Sue,"  growled  the  father. 

"What's  enough?" 

"We  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  more  show  about  this. 
I've  had  my  supper  spoiled  by  it  already. " 

"I  say  it's  a  rotten  shame, "  broke  out  Sue,  and 
she  repeated,  "Ralph's  too  good  for  her.  All 
because  of  a  city  dude — a  tenderfoot!" 

In  the  extremity  of  her  scorn  her  voice  drawled 
in  a  harsh  murmur. 

"Then  take  him  yourself,  if  you  can  get  him!" 
cried  Lizzie.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  want  him!" 

Their  eyes  blazed  at  each  other  across  the  table, 
and  Lizzie,  having  scored  an  unexpected  point, 
struck  again. 

"I  think  you've  always  had  a  sort  of  hankerin' 
after  Ralph — oh,  I've  seen  your  eyes  rollin'  at 
him." 

The  other  girl  coloured  hotly  through  her 
tan. 

"If  I  was  fond  of  him  I  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to 


ii4  Trailin' 

let  him  know,  you  can  tell  the  world  that.  And  I 
wouldn't  keep  him  trottin'  about  like  a  little  pet 
dog  till  I  got  tired  of  him  and  give  him  up  for  the 
sake  of  a  greenhorn  who" — her  voice  lowered  to 
a  spiteful  hiss — "kissed  you  the  first  time  he  even 
seen  you!" 

In  vain  Lizzie  fought  for  her  control;  her  lip 
trembled  and  her  voice  shook. 

1  'I  hate  you,  Sue!" 

"Sue,  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  pleaded 
the  mother. 

•  "No,  I  ain't!  Think  of  it;  here's  Ralph  been 
sweet  on  Liz  for  two  years  an'  now  she  gives  him 
the  go-by  for  a  skinny,  affected  dude  like  that 
feller  that  was  here.  And  he's  forgot  you  already, 
Liz,  the  minute  he  stopped  laughing  at  you  for 
bein'  so  easy." 

"Ma,  are  you  goin'  to  let  Sue  talk  like  this — 
right  before  a  stranger?" 

"Sue,  you  shut  up!"  commanded  the  father. 

"I  don't  see  nobody  that  can  make  me,"  she 
said,  surly  as  a  grown  boy.  "I  can't  make  any 
more  of  a  fool  out  of  Liz  than  that  tenderfoot  made 
her!" 

"Did  he,"  asked  Steve,  "ride  a  piebald  mus 
tang?" 

"D'you  know  him?"  breathed  Lizzie,  forgetting 


A  Touch  of  Crimson          115 

the  tears  of  shame  which  had  been  gathering  in  her 
eyes. 

"Nope.  Jest  heard  a  little  about  him  along  the 
road." 

"What's  his  name?" 

Then  she  coloured,  even  before  Sue  could  say 
spitefully:  "Didn't  he  even  have  to  tell  you  his 
name  before  he  kissed  you?" 

' '  He  did !    His  name  is— Tony ! ' ' 

"Tony!"— in  deep  disgust.  "Well,  he's  dark 
enough  to  be  a  dago !  Maybe  he's  a  foreign  count, 
or  something,  Liz,  and  he'll  take  you  back  to  live 
in  some  castle  or  other. " 

But  the  girl  queried,  in  spite  of  this  badinage: 
"Do  you  know  his  name?" 

"His  name,"  said  Nash,  thinking  that  it  could 
do  no  harm  to  betray  as  much  as  this,  "is  Anthony 
Bard,  I  think." 

"And  you  don't  know  him?" 

"All  I  know  is  that  the  feller  who  used  to  own 
that  piebald  mustang  is  pretty  mad  and  cusses 
every  time  he  thinks  of  him. " 

"He  didn't  steal  the  hoss?" 

This  with  more  bated  breath  than  if  the  ques 
tion  had  been:  "He  didn't  kill  a  man?"  for  indeed 
horse-stealing  was  the  greater  crime. 

Even  Nash  would  not  make  such  an  accusation 


"6  Trailin' 

directly,  and  therefore  he  fell  back  on  an  innuendo 
almost  as  deadly. 

"I  dunno, "  he  said  non-committally,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

With  all  his  soul  he  was  concentrating  on  the 
picture  of  the  man  who  conquered  a  fighting  horse 
and  flirted  successfully  with  a  pretty  girl  the  same 
day;  each  time  riding  on  swiftly  from  his  con 
quest.  The  clues  on  this  trail  were  surely  thick 
enough,  but  they  were  of  such  a  nature  that  the 
pleasant  mind  of  Steve  grew  more  and  more 
thoughtful. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LEMONADE 

IN  fact,  so  thoughtful  had  Nash  become,  that 
he  slept  with  extraordinary  lightness  that  night 
and  was  up  at  the  first  hint  of  day.  Sue  appeared 
on  the  scene  just  in  time  to  witness  the  last  act  of 
the  usual  drama  of  bucking  on  the  part  of  the  roan, 
before  it  settled  down  to  the  mechanical  dog-trot 
with  which  it  would  wear  out  the  ceaseless  miles 
of  the  mountain-desert  all  day  and  far  into  the 
night,  if  need  be. 

Nash  now  swung  more  to  the  right,  cutting 
across  the  hills,  for  he  presumed  that  by  this  time 
the  tenderfoot  must  have  gotten  his  bearings  and 
would  head  straight  for  Eldara.  It  was  a  stiff  two- 
day  journey,  now,  the  whole  first  day's  riding 
having  been  a  worse  than  useless  detour;  so  the 
bulldog  jaw  set  harder  and  harder,  and  the  keen 
eyes  squinted  as  if  to  look  into  the  dim  future. 

Once  each  day,  about  noon,  when  the  heat 
made  even  the  desert  and  the  men  of  the  desert 

117 


n8  Trailin' 

drowsy,  he  allowed  his  imagination  to  roam  freely, 
counting  the  thousand  dollars  over  and  over  again, 
and  tasting  again  the  joys  of  a  double  salary. 
Yet  even  his  hardy  imagination  rarely  rose  to  the 
height  of  Sally  Fortune.  That  hour  of  dreaming, 
however,  made  the  day  of  labour  almost  pleasant. 

This  time,  in  the  very  middle  of  his  dream,  he 
reached  the  cross-roads  saloon  and  general  mer 
chandise  store  of  Flanders;  so  he  banished  his 
visions  with  a  compelling  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  rode  for  it  at  a  gallop,  a  hot  dryness  growing 
in  his  throat  at  every  stride.  Quick  service  he  was 
sure  to  get,  for  there  were  not  more  than  half  a 
dozen  cattle-ponies  standing  in  front  of  the  little 
building  with  its  rickety  walls  guiltless  of  paint 
save  for  the  one  great  sign  inscribed  with  uncer 
tain  letters. 

He  swung  from  the  saddle,  tossed  the  reins  over 
the  head  of  the  mustang,  made  a  stride  forward — 
and  then  checked  himself  with  a  soft  curse  and 
reached  for  his  gun. 

For  the  door  of  the  bar  dashed  open  and  down 
the  steps  rushed  a  tall  man  with  light  yellow 
moustache,  so  long  that  it  literally  .blew  on  either 
side  over  his  shoulders  as  he  ran;  in  either  hand 
he  carried  a  revolver — a  two-gun  man,  fleeing, 
perhaps,  from  another  murder. 


Lemonade  1 19 

For  Nash  recognized  in  him  a  character  notori 
ous  through  a  thousand  miles  of  the  range,  Sandy 
Ferguson,  nicknamed  by  the  colour  of  that  famous 
moustache,  which  was  envied  and  dreaded  so  far 
and  so  wide.  It  was  not  fear  that  made  Nash  halt, 
for  otherwise  he  would  have  finished  the  motion 
and  whipped  out  his  gun ;  but  at  least  it  was  some 
thing  closely  akin  to  fear. 

For  that  matter,  there  were  unmistakable  signs 
in  Sandy  himself  of  what  would  have  been  called 
arrant  terror  in  any  other  man.  His  face  was  so 
bloodless  that  the  pallor  showed  even  through  the 
leathery  tan ;  one  eye  stared  wildly,  the  other  being 
sheltered  under  a  clumsy  patch  which  could  not 
quite  conceal  the  ugly  bruise  beneath.  Under  his 
great  moustache  his  lips  were  as  puffed  and  swollen 
as  the  lips  of  a  negro. 

Staggering  in  his  haste,  he  whirled  a  few  paces 
from  the  house  and  turned,  his  guns  levelled.  At 
the  same  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  per 
spiring  figure  of  little  fat  Flanders  appeared. 
Scorn  and  anger  rather  than  hate  or  any  blood- 
lust  appeared  in  his  face.  His  right  arm,  hanging 
loosely  at  his  side,  held  a  revolver,  and  he  seemed 
to  have  the  greatest  unconcern  for  the  levelled 
weapons  of  the  gunman. 

He  made  a  gesture  with  that  armed  hand,  and 


120  Trailin' 

Sandy  winced  as  though  a  whiplash  had  flicked 
him. 

"Steady  up,  damn  your  eyes!"  bellowed  Flan 
ders,  "and  put  them  guns  away.  Put  'em  up; 
hear  me?" 

To  the  mortal  astonishment  of  Nash,  Sandy 
obeyed,  keeping  the  while  a  fascinated  eye  upon 
the  little  Dutchman. 

' '  Now  climb  your  hoss  and  beat  it,  and  if  I  ever 
find  you  in  reach  again,  I'll  send  my  kid  out  to 
rope  you  and  give  you  a  hoss-whippin'. " 

The  gun  fighter  lost  no  time.  A  single  leap 
carried  him  into  his  saddle  and  he  was  off  over  the 
sand  with  a  sharp  rattle  of  the  beating  hoofs. 

"Well,"  breathed  Nash,  "I'll  be  hanged." 

"Sure  you  will,"  suggested  Flanders,  at  once 
changing  his  frown  for  a  smile  of  somewhat  pro 
fessional  good  nature,  as  one  who  greeted  an  old 
customer,  ' '  sure  you  will  unless  you  come  in  an1 
have  a  drink  on  the  house.  I  want  something 
myself  to  forget  what  I  been  doin'.  I  feel  like  the 
dog-catcher. " 

Steve,  deeply  meditative,  strode  into  the  room. 

"Partner,"  he  said  gravely  to  Flanders,  "I've 
always  prided  myself  on  having  eyes  a  little  better 
than  the  next  one,  but  just  now  I  guess  I  must  of 
been  seein'  double.  Seemed  to  me  that  that  was 


Lemonade  121 

Sandy  Ferguson  that  you  hot-footed  out  of  that 
door — or  has  Sandy  got  a  double?" 

"Nope,"  said  the  bartender,  wiping  the  last  of 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  "that's  Sandy, 
all  right. " 

"Then  gimme  a  big  drink.    I  need  it. " 

The  bottle  spun  expertly  across  the  bar,  and  the 
glasses  tinkled  after. 

"Funny  about  him,  all  right, "  nodded  Flanders, 
"but  then  it's  happened  the  same  way  with  others 
I  could  tell  about.  As  long  as  he  was  winnin' 
Sandy  was  the  king  of  any  roost.  The  minute  he 
lost  a  fight  he  wasn't  worth  so  many  pounds  of  salt 
pork.  Take  a  hoss;  a  fine  hoss  is  often  jest  the 
same.  Long  as  it  wins  nothin'  can  touch  some  of 
them  blooded  boys.  But  let  'em  go  under  the  wire 
second,  maybe  jest  because  they's  packing  twenty 
pounds  too  much  weight,  and  they're  never  any 
good  any  more.  Any  second-rater  can  lick  'em. 
I  lost  five  hundred  iron  boys  on  a  hoss  that  laid 
down  like  that." 

"All  of  which  means,"  suggested  Nash,  "that 
Sandy  has  been  licked?" 

"Licked?  No,  he  ain't  been  licked,  but  he's 
been  plumb  annihilated,  washed  off  the  map, 
cleaned  out,  faded,  rubbed  into  the  dirt;  if  there 
was  some  stronger  way  of  puttin'  it,  I  would. 


122  Trailin' 

Only  last  night,  at  that,  but  now  look  at  him.  A 
girl  that  never  seen  a  man  before  could  tell  that 
he  wasn't  any  more  dangerous  now  than  if  he  was 
made  of  putty;  but  if  the  fool  keeps  packin'  them 
guns  he's  sure  to  get  into  trouble. " 

He  raised  his  glass. 

''So  here's  to  the  man  that  Sandy  was  and 
ain't  no  more. " 

They  drank  solemnly. 

"Maybe  you  took  the  fall  out  of  him  yourself, 
Flanders?" 

"Nope.  I  ain't  no  fighter,  Steve.  You  know 
that.  The  feller  that  downed  Sandy  was — a 
tenderfoot.  Yep,  a  greenhorn. " 

"Ah-h-h, "  drawled  Nash  softly,  "I  thought  so. " 

"You  did?" 

'  *  Anyway,  let's  hear  the  story.  Another  drink — 
on  me,  Flanders. " 

"It  was  like  this.  Along  about  evening  of  yes 
terday  Sandy  was  in  here  with  a  couple  of  other 
boys.  He  was  pretty  well  lighted — the  glow  was 
circulatin'  promiscuous,  in  fact — when  in  comes  a 
feller  about  your  height,  Steve,  but  lighter.  Good- 
lookin',  thin  face,  big  dark  eyes  like  a  girl.  He 
carried  the  signs  of  a  long  ride  on  him.  Well,  sir, 
he  walks  up  to  the  bar  and  says:  'Can  you  make 
me  a  very  sour  lemonade,  Mr.  Bartender?' 


Lemonade  123 

"I  grabbed  the  edge  of  the  bar  and  hung  tight. 

"'A  which? 'says  I. 

' ' '  Lemonade,  if  you  please. ' 

"I  rolled  an  eye  at  Sandy,  who  was  standin' 
there  with  his  jaw  falling,  and  then  I  got  busy 
with  lemons  and  the  squeezer,  but  pretty  soon 
Ferguson  walks  up  to  the  stranger. 

"'Are  you  English?'  he  asks. 

"I  knew  by  his  tone  what  was  comin',  so  I  slid 
the  gun  I  keep  behind  the  bar  closer  and  got  pre 
pared  for  a  lot  of  damaged  crockery. 

"'I?'  says  the  tenderfoot.  'Why,  no.  What 
makes  you  ask?' 

"'Your  damned  funny  way  of  talkin','  says 
Sandy. 

"'Oh, '  says  the  greenhorn,  nodding  as  if  he  was 
thinkin'  this  over  and  discovering  a  little  truth  in 
it.  'I  suppose  the  way  I  talk  is  a  little  unusual.' 

"  'A  little  rotten,'  says  Sandy.  'Did  I  hear  you 
askin'  for  a  lemonade?' 

"'You  did.' 

"Would  I  seem  to  be  askin'  too  many  ques 
tions,'  says  Sandy,  terrible  polite,  'if  I  inquires  if 
bar  whisky  ain't  good  enough  for  you?' 

"The  tenderfoot,  he  stands  there  jest  as  easy 
as  you  an'  me  stand  here  now,  and  he  laughed. 

"He  says:  'The  bar  whisky  I've  tasted  around 


124  Trailin' 

this  country  is  not  very  good  for  any  one,  unless, 
perhaps,  after  a  snake  has  bitten  you.  Then  it 
works  on  the  principle  of  poison  fight  poison,  eh  ? ' 

11  Sandy  says  after  a  minute:  'I'm  the  most 
quietest,  gentle,  innercent  cowpuncher  that  ever 
rode  the  range,  but  I'd  tell  a  man  that  it  riles  me 
to  hear  good  bar  whisky  insulted  like  this.  Look 
at  me!  Do  I  look  as  if  whisky  ain't  good  for  a 
man?' 

"Why,'  says  the  tenderfoot,  'you  look  sort  of 
funny  to  me. ' 

"He  said  it  as  easy  as  if  he  was  passin'  the 
morning  with  Ferguson,  but  I  seen  that  it  was  the 
last  straw  with  Sandy.  He  hefted  out  both  guns 
and  trained  'em  on  the  greenhorn. 

"I  yelled:  *  Sandy,  for  God's  sake,  don't  be 
killin'  a  tenderfoot ! ' 

"If  whisky  will  kill  him  he's  goin'  to  die,'  says 
Sandy.  'Flanders,  pour  out  a  drink  of  rye  for 
this  gent. ' 

"I  did  it,  though  my  hand  was  shaking  a  lot, 
and  the  chap  takes  the  glass  and  raises  it  polite, 
and  looks  at  the  colour  of  it.  I  thought  he  was 
goin'  to  drink,  and  starts  wipin'  the  sweat  off'n 
my  forehead. 

"But  this  chap,  he  sets  down  the  glass  and 
smiles  over  to  Sandy. 


Lemonade  125 

" 'Listen,'  he  says,  still  grinnin',  'in  the  old 
days  I  suppose  this  would  have  been  a  pretty  bluff, 
but  it  won't  work  with  me  now.  You  want  me  to 
drink  this  glass  of  very  bad  whisky,  but  I'm  sure 
that  you  don't  want  it  badly  enough  to  shoot 
me. 

"'There  are  many  reasons.  In  the  old  days  a 
man  shot  down  another  and  then  rode  off  on  his 
horse  and  was  forgotten,  but  in  these  days  the 
telegraph  is  faster  than  any  horse  that  was  ever 
foaled.  They'd  be  sure  to  get  you,  sir,  though  you 
might  dodge  them  for  a  while.  And  I  believe 
that  for  a  crime  such  as  you  threaten,  they  have 
recently  installed  a  little  electric  chair  which  is 
a  perfectly  good  inducer  of  sleep — in  fact,  it  is 
better  than  a  cradle.  Taking  these  things  all  into 
consideration,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  are 
bluffing,  my  friend,  and  one  of  my  favourite  occu 
pations  is  calling  a  bluff.  You  look  dangerous, 
but  I've  an  idea  that  you  are  as  yellow  as  your 
moustache. ' 

"Sandy,  he  sort  of  swelled  up  all  over  like  a 
poisoned  dog. 

* '  He  says :  '  I  begin  to  see  your  style.  You  want 
a  clean  man-handlin',  which  suits  me  uncommon 
well.' 

"With  that,  he  lays  down  his  guns,  soft  and 


i26  Trailin' 

careful,  and  puts  up  his  fists,  and  goes  for  the  other 
gent. 

"He  makes  his  pass,  which  should  have  sent 
the  other  gent  into  kingdom  come.  But  it  didn't. 
No,  sir,  the  tenderfoot,  he  seemed  to  evaporate. 
He  wasn't  there  when  the  fist  of  Ferguson  come 
along.  Ferguson,  he  checked  up  short  and  wheeled 
around  and  charged  again  like  a  bull.  And  he 
missed  again.  And  so  they  kept  on  playin'  a  sort 
of  a  game  of  tag  over  the  place,  the  stranger  jest 
side-steppin'  like  a  prize-fighter,  the  prettiest  you 
ever  seen,  and  not  developin'  when  Sandy  started 
on  one  of  his  swings. 

"At  last  one  of  Sandy's  fists  grazed  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  sort  of  peeved  him,  it  looked  like. 
He  ducks  under  Sandy's  next  punch,  steps  in, 
and  wallops  Sandy  over  the  eye — that  punch 
didn't  travel  more'n  six  inches.  But  it  slammed 
Sandy  down  in  a  corner  like  he's  been  shot. 

' '  He  was  too  surprised  to  be  much  hurt,  though, 
and  drags  himself  up  to  his  feet,  makin'  a  pass  at 
his  pocket  at  the  same  time.  Then  he  came  again, 
silent  and  thinkin'  of  blood,  I  s'pose,  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand. 

1 ' This  time  the  tenderfoot  didn't  wait.  He  went 
in  with  a  sort  of  hitch  step,  like  a  dancer.  Fer 
guson's  knife  carved  the  air  beside  the  tenderfoot's 


Lemonade  127 

head,  and  then  the  skinny  boy  jerked  up  his  right 
and  his  left — one,  two — into  Sandy's  mouth. 
Down  he  goes  again — slumps  down  as  if  all  the 
bones  in  his  body  was  busted — right  down  on  his 
face.  The  other  feller  grabs  his  shoulder  and  jerks 
him  over  on  his  back. 

"He  stands  lookin'  down  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  says,  sort  of  thoughtful:  'He  isn't 
badly  hurt,  but  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  have  hit 
him  twice. ' 

"Can  you  beat  that,  Steve?    You  can't! 

"When  Sandy  come  to  he  got  up  to  his  feet, 
wobbling — seen  his  guns — went  over  and  scooped 
'em  up,  with  the  eye  of  the  tenderfoot  on  him  all 
the  time — scooped  'em  up — stood  with  'em  all 
poised — and  so  he  backed  out  through  the  door. 
It  wasn't  any  pretty  thing  to  see.  The  tenderfoot, 
he  turned  to  the  bar  again. 

"'If  you  don't  mind,'  he  says,  'I  think  I'll 
switch  my  order  and  take  that  whisky  instead. 
I  seem  to  need  it. ' 

"'Son!'  says  I,  'there  ain't  nothin'  in  the  house 
you  can't  have  for  the  askin'.  Try  some  of  this!* 

"And  I  pulled  out  a  bottle  of  my  private  stock — 
you  know  the  stuff;  I've  had  it  twenty-five  years, 
and  it  was  ten  years  old  when  I  got  it.  That  ain't 
as  much  of  a  lie  as  it  sounds. 


128  Trailin' 

"He  takes  a  glass  of  it  and  sips  it,  sort  of  sus 
picious,  like  a  wolf  seen  tin'  the  wind  for  an  elk  in 
winter.  Then  his  face  lighted  up  like  a  lantern 
had  been  flashed  on  it.  You'd  of  thought  that  he 
was  lookin'  his  long-lost  brother  in  the  eye  from 
the  way  he  smiled  at  me.  He  holds  the  glass  up 
and  lets  the  light  come  through  it,  showin'  the 
little  traces  and  bubbles  of  oil. 

' '  May  I  know  your  name  ? '  he  says. 

"It  made  me  feel  like  Rockerbilt,  hearin'  him 
say  that,  in  that  special  voice. 

"'Me,'  says  I,  'I'm  Flanders.' 

"'It's  an  honour  to  know  you,  Mr.  Flanders,' 
he  says.  'My  name  is  Anthony  Bard. ' 

"We  shook  hands,  and  his  grip  was  three 
fourths  man,  I'll  tell  the  world. 

"'Good  liquor,'  says  he,  'is  like  a  fine  lady. 
Only  a  gentleman  can  appreciate  it.  I  drink  to 
you,  sir.' 

"So  that's  how  Sandy  Ferguson  went  under  the 
sod.  To-day?  Well,  I  couldn't  let  Ferguson  stand 
in  a  barroom  where  a  gentleman  had  been,  could 
I?" 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   DARKNESS    IN    ELDARA 

EVEN  the  stout  roan  grew  weary  during  the 
third  day,  and  when  they  topped  the  last  rise  of 
hills,  and  looked  down  to  darker  shadows  in  Eldara 
in  the  black  heart  of  the  hollow,  the  mustang 
stood  with  hanging  head,  and  one  ear  flopped  for 
ward.  Cruel  indeed  had  been  the  pace  which 
Nash  maintained,  yet  they  had  never  been 
able  to  overhaul  the  flying  piebald  of  Anthony 
Bard. 

As  they  trotted  down  the  slope,  Nash  looked  to 
his  equipment,  handled  his  revolver,  felt  the 
strands  of  the  lariat,  and  resting  only  his  toes  in 
the  stirrups,  eased  all  his  muscles  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  uncramped  from  the  long  journey. 
He  was  fit;  there  was  no  doubt  of  that. 

Coming    down    the    main    street — for    Eldara 

boasted  no  fewer  than  three  thoroughfares — the 

first  houses  which  Nash  passed  showed  no  lights. 

As  far  as  he  could  see,  the  blinds  were  all  drawn; 

9  129 


i3°  Trailin' 

not  even  the  glimmer  of  a  candle  showed,  and 
the  voices  which  he  heard  were  muffled  and 
low. 

He  thought  of  plague  or  some  other  disaster 
which  might  have  overtaken  the  little  village  and 
wiped  out  nine  tenths  of  the  populace  in  a  day. 
Only  such  a  thing  could  account  for  silence  in 
Eldara.  There  should  have  been  bursts  and  roars 
of  laughter  here  and  there,  and  now  and  then  a 
harsh  stream  of  cursing.  There  should  have  been 
clatter  of  kitchen  tins;  there  should  have  been 
neighing  of  horses;  there  should  have  been  the 
quiver  and  tingle  of  children's  voices  at  play  in  the 
dusty  streets.  But  there  was  none  of  this.  The 
silence  was  as  thick  and  oppressive  as  the  un 
broken  dark  of  the  night.  Even  Butler's  saloon 
was  closed! 

This,  however,  was  something  which  he  would 
not  believe,  no  matter  what  testimony  his  eyes 
gave  him.  He  rode  up  to  a  shuttered  window  and 
kicked  it  with  his  heel. 

Only  the  echoes  of  that  racket  replied  to  him 
from  the  interior  of  the  place.  He  swore,  some 
what  touched  with  awe,  and  kicked  again. 

A  faint  voice  called:  "Who's  there?" 

"Steve  Nash.  What  the  devil's  happened  to 
Eldara?" 


The  Darkness  in  Eldara        13 r 

The  boards  of  the  shutter  stirred,  opened,  so 
that  the  man  within  could  look  out. 

"Is  it  Steve,  honest?" 

"Damn  it,  Butler,  don't  you  know  my  voice? 
What's  turned  Eldara  into  a  cemetery?" 

"Cemetery's  right.  'Butch'  Conklin  and  his 
gang  are  going  to  raid  the  place  to-night. " 

"Butch  Conklin?" 

And  Nash  whistled  long  and  low. 

"But  why  the  devil  don't  the  boys  get  together 
if  they  know  Butch  is  coming  with  his  gunmen?" 

"That's  what  they've  done.  Every  able-bodied 
man  in  town  is  out  in  the  hills  trying  to  surprise 
Conklin's  gang  before  they  hit  town  with  their 
guns  going." 

Butler  was  a  one-legged  man,  so  Nash  kept 
back  the  question  which  naturally  formed  in  his 
mind. 

"How  do  they  know  Conklin  is  coming?  Who 
gave  the  tip?" 

"Conklin  himself." 

"What?    Has  he  been  in  town?" 

' '  Right.    Came  in  roaring  drunk. ' ' 

"Why'd  they  let  him  get  away  again?" 

"Because  the  sheriff's  a  bonehead  and  because 
our  marshal  is  solid  ivory.  That's  why. " 

1  'What  happened?" 


132  Trailin' 

"Butch  came  in  drunk,  as  I  was  saying,  which 
he  generally  is,  but  he  wasn't  giving  no  trouble  at 
all,  and  nobody  felt  particular  called  on  to  cross 
him  and  ask  questions.  He  was  real  sociable,  in 
fact,  and  that's  how  the  mess  was  started. " 

"Go  on.    I  don't  get  your  drift.  " 

"Everybody  was  treatin'  Butch  like  he  was  the 
king  of  the  earth  and  not  passin'  out  any  back- 
talk,  all  except  one  tenderfoot " 

But  here  a  stream  of  tremendous  profanity 
burst  from  Nash.  It  rose,  it  rushed  on,  it  seemed 
an  exhaustless  vocabulary  built  up  by  long  prac 
tice  on  mustangs  and  cattle. 

At  length:  "Is  that  damned  fool  in  Eldara?" 

"D'  you  know  him?" 

"No.    Anyway,  go  on.    What  happened?" 

"I  was  sayin'  that  Butch  was  feelin'  pretty 
sociable.  It  went  all  right  in  the  bars.  He  was 
in  here  and  didn't  do  nothin'  wrong.  Even  paid 
for  all  the  drinks  for  everybody  in  the  house,  which 
nobody  could  ask  more  even  from  a  white  man. 
But  then  Butch  got  hungry  and  went  up  the  street 
to  Sally  Fortune's  place.  " 

A  snarl  came  from  Nash. 

"Did  they  let  that  swine  go  in  there?" 

' '  Who'd  stop  him  ?    Would  you  ? " 

"I'd  try  my  damnedest. " 


The  Darkness  in  Eldara        133 

"Anyway,  in  he  went  and  got  the  centre  table 
and  called  for  ten  dollars'  worth  of  bacon  and 
eggs — which  there  hasn't  been  an  egg  in  Eldara 
this  week.  Sally,  she  told  him,  not  being  afraid 
even  of  Butch.  He  got  pretty  sore  at  that  and 
said  that  it  was  a  frame-up  and  everyone  was 
ag'in'  him.  But  finally  he  allowed  that  if  she'd 
sit  down  to  the  table  and  keep  him  company  he'd 
manage  to  make  out  on  whatever  her  cook  had 
ready  to  eat. " 

"And  Sally  done  it?"  groaned  Nash. 

"Sure;  it  was  like  a  dare — and  you  know  Sally. 
She'd  risk  her  whole  place  any  time  for  the  sake 
of  a  bet." 

"I  know  it,  but  don't  rub  it  in.  " 

"She  fetched  out  a  steak  and  served  Butch  as 
if  he'd  been  a  king  and  then  sat  down  beside  him 
and  started  kiddin'  him  along,  with  all  the  gang 
of  us  sittin'  or  standin'  around  and  laughin'  fit  to 
bust,  but  not  loud  for  fear  Butch  would  get 
annoyed. 

"Then  two  things  come  in  together  and  spoiled 
the  prettiest  little  party  that  was  ever  started  in 
Eldara.  First  was  that  player  piano  which  Sally 
got  shipped  in  and  paid  God-knows-how-much 
for;  the  second  was  this  greenhorn  I  was  tellin' 
you  about." 


i34  Trailin' 

"Go  on,"  said  Nash,  the  little  snarl  coming 
back  in  his  voice.  "Tell  me  how  the  tenderfoot 
walked  up  and  kicked  Butch  out  of  the  place. " 

"Somebody  been  tellin'  you?" 

"No;  I  just  been  readin'  the  mind  of  Eldara. " 

"It  was  a  nice  play,  though.  This  Bard — we 
found  out  later  that  was  his  name — walks  in, 
takes  a  table,  and  not  being  served  none  too  quick, 
he  walks  over  and  slips  a  nickel  in  the  slot  of  the 
piano.  Out  she  starts  with  a  piece  of  rippin'  rag 
time — you  know  how  loud  it  plays?  Butch,  he 
kept  on  talkin'  for  a  minute,  but  couldn't  hear 
himself  think.  Finally  he  bellers:  'Who  turned 
that  damned  tin-pan  loose  ? ' 

"This  Bard  walks  up  and  bows.  He  says:  'Sir, 
I  came  here  to  find  food,  and  since  I  can't  get 
service,  I'll  take  music  as  a  substitute. ' 

"Them  was  the  words  he  used,  Steve,  honest  to 
God.  Used  them  to  Butch! 

"Well,  Conklin  was  too  flabbergasted  to  budge, 
and  Bard,  he  leaned  over  and  says  to  Sally:  'This 
floor  is  fairly  smooth.  Suppose  you  and  I  dance 
till  I  get  a  chance  to  eat  ? ' 

"We  didn't  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cheer, 
but  most  of  us  compromised  by  keeping  an  eye  on 
Butch's  gun. 

"Sally  says,  'Sure  I'll  dance, '  and  gets  up. 


The  Darkness  in  Eldara       135 

"'Wait!'  hollers  Butch;  'are  you  leavin'  me  for 
this  wall-eyed  galoot  ? ' 

"There  ain't  nothin'  Sally  loves  more'n  a  fight — 
we  all  know  that.  But  this  time  I  guess  she  took 
pity  on  the  poor  tenderfoot,  or  maybe  she  jest 
didn't  want  to  get  her  floor  all  messed  up. 

"'Keep  your  hat  on,  Butch,'  she  says,  'all  I 
want  to  do  is  to  give  him  some  motherly  advice.' 

"'If  you're  acting  that  part,'  says  Bard,  calm 
as  you  please,  'I've  got  to  tell  mother  that  she's 
been  keeping  some  pretty  bad  company. ' 

"'Some  what?'  bellers  Butch,  not  believin'  his 
ears. 

"And  young  Bard,  he  steps  around  the  girl  and 
stands  over  Butch. 

"  'Bad  company  is  what  I  said, '  he  repeats,  'but 
maybe  I  can  be  convinced. ' 

"'Easy,'  says  Butch,  and  reaches  for  his  gun. 

"We  all  dived  for  the  door,  but  me  being  held 
up  on  account  of  my  missing  leg,  I  was  slow  an' 
couldn't  help  seem'  what  happened.  Butch  was 
fast,  but  the  young  feller  was  faster.  He  had 
Butch  by  the  wrist  before  the  gun  came  clear — 
just  gave  a  little  twist — and  there  he  stood  with 
the  gun  in  his  hand  pointin'  into  Butch 's  face,  and 
Butch  sittin'  there  like  a  feller  in  a  trance  or  wakin' 
up  out  of  a  bad  dream. 


136  Trailin' 

"Then  he  gets  up,  slow  and  dignified,  though 
he  had  enough  liquor  in  him  to  float  a  ship. 

"'I  been  mobbed,'  he  says,  'it's  easy  to  see 
that.  I  come  here  peaceful  and  quiet,  and  here  I 
been  mobbed.  But  I'm  comin'  back,  boys,  and  I 
ain't  comin'  alone.' 

"There  was  our  chance  to  get  him,  while  he  was 
walking  out  of  that  place  without  a  gun,  but  some 
how  nobody  moved  for  him.  He  didn't  look  none 
too  easy,  even  without  his  shootin'  irons.  Out  he 
goes  into  the  night,  and  we  stood  around  starin' 
at  each  other.  Everybody  was  upset,  except  Sally 
and  Bard. 

"He  says:  'Miss  Fortune,  this  is  our  dance,  I 
think. ' 

'"Excuse  me, '  says  Sally,  'I  almost  forgot  about 
it.' 

"And  they  started  to  dance  to  the  piano,  waltzin' 
around  among  the  tables ;  the  rest  of  us  lit  out  for 
home  because  we  knew  that  Butch  would  be  on  his 
way  with  his  gang  before  we  got  very  far  under 
cover.  But  hey,  Steve,  where  you  goin'?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  in  on  that  dance,"  called 
Nash,  and  was  gone  at  a  racing  gallop  down  the 
street. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BLUFF 

HE  found  no  dance  in  progress,  however,  but 
in  the  otherwise  empty  eating  place,  which  Sally 
owned  and  ran  with  her  two  capable  hands  and 
the  assistance  of  a  cook,  sat  Sally  herself  dining 
at  the  same  table  with  the  tenderfoot,  the  flirt, 
the  horse-breaker,  the  tamer  of  gun-fighters. 

Nash  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  watch 
ing  that  lean,  handsome  face  with  the  suggestion 
of  mockery  in  the  eyes  and  the  trace  of  stern 
ness  around  the  thin  lips.  Not  a  formidable  fig 
ure  by  any  means,  but  since  his  experiences  of 
the  past  few  days,  Nash  was  grown  extremely 
thoughtful. 

What  he  finally  thought  he  caught  in  this  most 
unusual  tenderfoot  was  a  certain  alertness  of  a 
more  or  less  hair-trigger  variety.  Even  now  as  he 
sat  at  ease  at  the  table,  one  elbow  resting  lightly 
upon  it,  apparently  enwrapped  in  the  converse  of 
Sally  Fortune,  Nash  had  a  consciousness  that  the 

137 


138  Trailin' 

other  might  be  on  his  feet  and  in  the  most  distant 
part  of  the  room  within  a  second. 

What  he  noted  in  the  second  instant  of  his  ob 
servation  was  that  Sally  was  not  at  all  loath  to 
waste  her  time  on  the  stranger.  She  was  eating 
with  a  truly  formidable  conventionality  of  manner, 
and  a  certain  grace  with  which  she  raised  the 
ponderous  coffee  cup,  made  of  crockery  guaranteed 
to  resist  all  falls,  struck  awe  through  the  heart  of 
the  cowpuncher.  She  was  bent  on  another  con 
quest,  beyond  all  doubt,  and  that  she  would  not 
make  it  never  entered  the  thoughts  of  Nash.  He 
set  his  face  to  banish  a  natural  scowl  and  advanced 
with  a  good-natured  smile  into  the  room. 

4 'Hello!  "he  called. 

"It's  old  Steve!"  sang  out  Sally,  and  whirling 
from  her  chair,  she  advanced  almost  at  a  run  to 
meet  him,  caught  him  by  both  hands,  and  led  him 
to  a  table  next  to  that  at  which  she  had  been  sitting. 

It  was  as  gracefully  done  as  if  she  had  been  wel 
coming  a  brother,  but  Nash,  knowing  Sally,  under 
stood  perfectly  that  it  was  only  a  play  to  impress 
the  eye  of  Bard.  Nevertheless  he  was  forced  to 
accept  it  in  good  part. 

"My  old  pal,  Steve  Nash, "  said  Sally,  "and  this 
is  Mr.  Anthony  Bard. " 

Just  the  faintest  accent  fell  on  the  "Mr.,"  but 


Bluff  139 

it  made  Steve  wince.  He  rose  and  shook  hands 
gravely  with  the  tenderfoot. 

"I  stopped  at  Butler's  place  down  the  street," 
he  said,  "and  been  hearin'  a  pile  about  a  little  play 
you  made  a  while  ago.  It  was  about  time  for  some 
body  to  call  old  Butch's  bluff. " 

"Bluff?"  cried  Sally  indignantly. 

"Bluff?"  queried  Bard,  with  a  slight  raising  of 
the  eyebrows. 

"Sure — bluff.  Butch  wasn't  any  more  danger 
ous  than  a  cat  with  trimmed  claws.  But  I  guess 
you  seen  that?" 

He  settled  down  easily  in  his  chair  just  as  Sally 
resumed  her  place  opposite  Bard. 

"Steve,"  she  said,  with  a  quiet  venom,  "that 
bluff  of  his  has  been  as  good  as  four-of-a-kind  with 
you  for  a  long  time.  I  never  seen  you  make  any 
play  at  Butch." 

He  returned  amiably : ' '  Like  to  sit  here  and  have 
a  nice  social  chat,  Sally,  but  I  got  to  be  get  tin' 
back  to  the  ranch,  and  in  the  meantime,  I'm  sure 
hungry." 

At  the  reminder  of  business  a  green  light  came 
in  the  fine  blue  eyes  of  Sally.  They  were  her  only 
really  fine  features,  for  the  nose  tilted  an  engaging 
trifle,  the  mouth  was  a  little  too  generous,  the 
chin  so  strong  that  it  gave,  in  moments  of  passivity, 


140  Trailin' 

an  air  of  sternness  to  her  face.  That  sternness  was 
exaggerated  as  she  rose,  keeping  her  glare  fixed 
upon  Nash ;  a  thing  impossible  for  him  to  bear,  so 
he  lowered  his  eyes  and  engaged  in  rolling  a  cig 
arette.  She  turned  back  toward  Bard. 

"Sorry  I  got  to  go — before  I  finished  eating — 
but  business  is  business. " 

"And  sometimes,"  suggested  Bard,  "a  bore." 

It  was  an  excellent  opening  for  a  quarrel,  but 
Nash  was  remembering  religiously  a  certain  thou 
sand  dollars,  and  also  a  gesture  of  William  Drew 
when  he  seemed  to  be  breaking  an  imaginary  twig. 
So  he  merely  lighted  his  cigarette  and  seemed  to 
have  heard  nothing. 

"The  whole  town,"  he  remarked  casually, 
"seems  scared  stiff  by  this  Butch;  but  of  course 
he  ain't  comin'  back  to-night. " 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  tenderfoot,  after  a  cold 
pause,  "that  he  will  not.  " 

But  the  coldness  reacted  like  the  most  genial 
warmth  upon  Nash.  He  had  chosen  a  part  de 
testable  to  him  but  necessary  to  his  business.  He 
must  be  a  "gabber"  for  the  nonce,  a  free  talker,  a 
chatterer,  who  would  cover  up  all  pauses. 

"Kind  of  strange  to  ride  into  a  dark  town  like 
this,"  he  began,  "but  I  could  tell  you  a  story 
about " 


Bluff 


"Oh,  Steve,"  called  the  voice  of  Sally  from  the 
kitchen. 

He  rose  and  nodded  to  Bard. 

"'Scuse  me,  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"Thanks,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  some 
what  grim  emphasis. 

In  the  kitchen  Sally  spoke  without  prelude. 
"What  deviltry  are  you  up  to  now,  Steve?" 

"Me?"  he  repeated  with  eyes  widened  by  inno 
cence.  "What  d'you  mean,  Sally?" 

"Don't  four-flush  me,  Steve.  " 

"Is  eating  in  your  place  deviltry?" 

"Am  I  blind?"  she  answered  hotly.  "Have  I 
got  spring-halt,  maybe?  You're  too  polite,  Steve; 
I  can  always  tell  when  you're  on  the  way  to  a  little 
hell  of  your  own  making,  by  the  way  you  get  sort 
of  kind  and  warmed  up.  What  is  it  now?" 

"Kiss  me,  Sally,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  came  to 
town.  " 

She  said  with  a  touch  of  colour:  "I'll  see  you  —  " 
and  then  changing  quickly,  she  slipped  inside 
his  ready  arms  with  a  smile  and  tilted  up  her 
face. 

"Now  what  is  it,  Steve?" 

"This,  "  he  answered. 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"You  know  me,  Sally.    I've  worn  out  the  other 


Trail!  n' 


ways  of  raising  hell,  so  I  thought  I'd  start  a  little 
by  coming  to  Eldara  to  kiss  you.  " 

Her  open  hand  cracked  sharply  twice  on  his  lean 
face  and  she  was  out  of  his  arms.  He  followed, 
laughing,  but  she  armed  herself  with  a  red-hot 
frying  pan  and  defied  him. 

"You  ain't  even  a  good  sport,  Steve.  I'm  done 
with  you  !  Kiss  you  ?  '  ' 

He  said  calmly:  "I  see  the  hell  is  startin',  all 
right." 

But  she  changed  at  once,  and  smiled  up  to  him. 

"I  can't  stay  mad  at  you,  Steve.  I  s'pose  it's 
because  of  your  nerve.  I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me.  " 

"What?" 

"Is  that  a  way  to  take  it?  I've  asked  you  a 
favour,  Steve." 

He  said  suspiciously:  "It's  got  something  to  do 
with  the  tenderfoot  in  the  room  out  there?" 

It  was  a  palpable  hit,  for  she  coloured  sharply. 
Then  she  took  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"What  if  it  is?" 

"Sally,  d'you  mean  to  say  you've  fallen  for  that 
cheap  line  of  lingo  he  passes  out?" 

"Steve,  don't  try  to  kid  me.  " 

"Why,  you  know  who  he  is,  don't  you?" 

"Sure;  Anthony  Bard.  " 


Bluff  H3 

"And  do  you  know  who  Anthony  Bard  is?" 

"Well?"  she  asked  with  some  anxiety. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  know  you  can  find  out. 
That's  what  the  last  girl  done. " 

She  wavered,  and  then  blinked  her  eyes  as  if 
she  were  resolved  to  shut  out  the  truth. 

"I  asked  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  Steve." 

"And  I  will.    You  know  that." 

"I  want  you  to  see  that  Bard  gets  safe  out  of 
this  town." 

"Sure.    Nothing  I'd  rather  do." 

She  tilted  her  head  a  little  to  one  side  and  re 
garded  him  wistfully. 

"Are  you  double-crossin'  me,  Steve?" 

"Why  d'you  suspect  me?  Haven't  I  said  I'd 
doit?" 

"But  you  said  it  too  easy." 

The  gentleness  died  in  her  face.  She  said  sternly : 
"If  you  do  double-cross  me,  you'll  find  I'm  about 
as  hard  as  any  man  on  the  range.  Get  me? " 

"Shake." 

Their  hands  met.  After  all,  he  did  not  guarantee 
what  would  happen  to  the  tenderfoot  after  they 
were  clear  of  the  town.  But  perhaps  this  was  a 
distinction  a  little  too  fine  for  the  downright  mind 
of  the  girl.  A  sea  of  troubles  besieged,  the  mind  of 
Nash. 


144  Trailin' 

And  to  let  that  sea  subside  he  wandered  back 
to  the  eating  room  and  found  the  tenderfoot  finish 
ing  his  coffee.  The  latter  kept  an  eye  of  frank 
suspicion  upon  him.  So  the  silence  held  for  a 
brooding  moment,  until  Bard  asked:  "D'you 
know  the  way  to  the  ranch  of  William  Drew?" 

It  was  a  puzzler  to  Nash.  Was  not  that  his  job, 
to  go  out  and  bring  the  man  to  Drew's  place? 
Here  he  was  already  on  the  way.  He  remembered 
just  in  time  that  the  manner  of  bringing  was  de 
cidedly  qualified. 

He  said  aloud:  "The  way?  Sure;  I  work  on 
Drew's  place." 

"Really!" 

"Yep;  foreman." 

"You  don't  happen  to  be  going  back  that  way 
to-night?" 

"Not  all  the  way;  part  of  it." 

"Mind  if  I  went  along?" 

"Nobody  to  keep  you  from  it,"  said  the  cow- 
puncher  without  enthusiasm. 

"By  the  way,  what  sort  of  a  man  is  Drew?" 

"Don't  you  know  him?" 

"No.  The  reason  I  want  to  see  him  is  because 
I  want  to  get  the  right  to  do  some — er — fishing 
and  hunting  on  a  place  of  his  on  the  other  side  of 
the  range. " 


Bluff  H5 

"The  place  with  the  old  house  on  it;  the  place 
Logan  is?" 

"Exactly.  Also  I  wish  to  see  Logan  again.  I've 
got  several  little  things  I'd  like  to  have  him 
explain." 

"H-m!"  grunted  Nash  without  apparent 
interest. 

"And  Drew?" 

"He's  a  big  feller;  big  and  grey. " 

"Ah-h-h, "  said  the  other,  and  drew  in  his 
breath,  as  though  he  were  drinking. 

It  seemed  to  Nash  that  he  had  never  seen  such 
an  unpleasant  smile. 

"You'll  get  what  you  want  out  of  Drew.  He's 
generous. " 

"I  hope  so, "  nodded  the  other,  with  far-off  eyes. 
"I've  got  a  lot  to  ask  of  him." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BUTCH    RETURNS 

HE  reminded  Nash  of  some  big  puma  cub  warm 
ing  itself  at  a  hearth  like  a  common  tabby  cat,  a 
tame  puma  thrusting  out  its  claws  and  turning  its 
yellow  eyes  up  to  its  owner — tame,  but  with  in 
finite  possibilities  of  danger.  For  the  information 
which  Nash  had  given  seemed  to  remove  all  his 
distrust  of  the  moment  before  and  he  became  in 
stantly  genial,  pleasant.  In  fact,  he  voiced  this 
sentiment  with  a  disarming  frankness  immediately. 

"Perhaps  I've  seemed  to  be  carrying  a  chip  on 
my  shoulder,  Mr.  Nash.  You  see,  I'm  not  long 
in  the  West,  and  the  people  I've  met  seem  to  be 
ready  to  fight  first  and  ask  questions  afterward. 
So  I've  caught  the  habit,  I  suppose. " 

"Which  a  habit  like  that  ain't  uncommon. 
The  graveyards  are  full  of  fellers  that  had  that 
habit  and  they're  going  to  be  fuller  still  of  the 
same  kind. " 

Here  Sally  entered,  carrying  the  meal  of  the 
146 


Butch  Returns  H7 

cowpuncher,  arranged  it,  and  then  sat  on  the 
edge  of  Bard's  table,  turning  from  one  to  the  other 
as  a  bird  on  a  spray  of  leaves  turns  from  sunlight 
to  shadow  and  cannot  make  a  choice. 

"Bard, "  stated  Nash,  "is  going  out  to  the  ranch 
with  me  to-night." 

"Long  ride  for  to-night,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  we'll  bunk  on  the  way  and  finish  up 
early  in  the  morning." 

"Then  you'll  have  a  chance  to  teach  him  Wes 
tern  manners  on  the  way,  Steve. " 

"Manners?"  queried  the  Easterner,  smiling  up 
to  the  girl. 

She  turned,  caught  him  beneath  the  chin  with 
one  hand,  tilting  his  face,  and  raised  the  lessoning 
forefinger  of  the  other  while  she  stared  down  at 
him  with  a  half  frown  and  a  half  smile  like  a  school 
teacher  about  to  discipline  a  recalcitrant  boy. 

"Western  manners,"  she  said,  "mean  first  not 
to  doubt  a  man  till  he  tries  to  double-cross  you, 
and  not  to  trust  him  till  he  saves  your  life ;  to  keep 
your  gun  inside  the  leather  till  you're  backed  up 
against  the  wall,  and  then  to  start  shootin'  as  soon 
as  the  muzzle  is  past  the  holster.  Then  the  thing 
to  remember  is  that  the  fast  shootin'  is  fine,  but 
sure  shootin'  is  a  lot  better.  D'you  get  me?" 

"That's  a  fine  sermon,"   smiled  Bard,    "but 


H8  Trailin' 

you're  too  young  to  make  a  convincing  preacher, 
Miss  Fortune." 

" Misfortune, "  said  the  girl  quickly,  ''don't 
have  to  be  old  to  do  a  lot  of  teachin'. " 

She  sat  back  and  regarded  him  with  something 
of  a  frown  and  with  folded  arms. 

He  said  with  a  sudden  earnestness :  ' '  You  seem 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  I'm  due  for  a  lot  of 
trouble." 

But  she  shook  her  head  gloomily. 

' '  I  know  what  you're  due  for ;  I  can  see  it  in  your 
eyes;  I  can  hear  it  in  your  way  of  talkin'.  If  you 
was  to  ride  the  range  with  a  sheriff  on  one  side  of 
you  and  a  marshal  on  the  other  you  couldn't  help 
fallin'  into  trouble." 

"As  a  fortune-teller,"  remarked  Nash,  "you'd 
make  a  good  undertaker,  Sally." 

"Shut  up,  Steve.  I've  seen  this  bird  in  action 
and  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  When  you 
coming  back  this  way,  Bard?" 

He  said  thoughtfully :  ' '  Perhaps  to-morrow  night 
— perhaps " 

"It  ought  to  be  to-morrow  night,"  she  said 
pointedly,  her  eyes  on  Nash. 

The  latter  had  pushed  his  chair  back  a  trifle  and 
sat  now  with  downward  head  and  his  right  hand 
resting  lightly  on  his  thigh.  Only  the  place  in 


Butch  Returns  H9 

which  they  sat  was  illumined  by  the  two  lamps, 
and  the  forward  part  of  the  room,  nearer  the  street, 
was  a  seat  of  shadows,  wavering  when  the  wind 
stirred  the  flame  in  one  of  the  lamps  or  sent  it 
smoking  up  the  chimney.  Sally  and  Bard  sat  with 
their  backs  to  the  door,  and  Nash  half  facing  it. 

"Steve, "  she  said,  with  a  sudden  low  tenseness 
of  voice  that  sent  a  chill  up  Bard's  spinal  cord, 
"Steve,  what's  wrong?" 

"This,"  answered  the  cowboy  calmly,  and 
whirling  in  his  chair,  his  gun  flashed  and  exploded. 

They  sprang  up  in  time  to  see  the  bulky  form 
of  Butch  Conklin  rise  out  of  the  shadows  in  the 
front  part  of  the  room  with  outstretched  arms, 
from  one  of  which  a  revolver  dropped  clattering 
to  the  floor.  Backward  he  reeled  as  though  a 
hand  were  pulling  him  from  behind,  and  then 
measured  his  length  with  a  crash  on  the  floor. 

Bard,  standing  erect,  quite  forgot  to  touch  his 
weapon,  but  Sally  had  produced  a  ponderous 
forty-five  with  mysterious  speed  and  now  crouched 
behind  a  table  with  the  gun  poised.  Nash,  bend 
ing  low,  ran  forward  to  the  fallen  man. 

"Nicked,  but  not  done  for,"  he  called. 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Sally,  and  the  two  joined 
Nash  about  the  prostrate  body. 

That  bullet  had  had  very  certain  intentions, 


Trailin' 


but  by  a  freak  of  chance  it  had  been  deflected  on 
the  angle  of  the  skull  and  merely  ploughed  a 
bloody  furrow  through  the  mat  of  hair  from  fore 
head  to  the  back  of  the  skull.  He  was  stunned, 
but  hardly  more  seriously  hurt  than  if  he  had  been 
knocked  down  by  a  club. 

"I've  an  idea,"  said  the  Easterner  calmly, 
"that  I  owe  my  life  to  you,  Mr.  Nash.  " 

"Let  that  drop,  "  answered  the  other. 

"A  quarter  of  an  inch  lower,"  said  the  girl, 
who  was  examining  the  wound,  '  '  and  Butch  would 
have  kissed  the  world  good-bye.  " 

Not  till  then  did  the  full  horror  of  the  thing 
dawn  on  Bard.  The  girl  was  no  more  excited  than 
one  of  her  Eastern  cousins  would  have  been  over  a 
game  of  bridge,  and  the  man  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  manner,  was  slipping  another  cartridge 
into  the  cylinder  of  the  revolver,  which  he  then 
restored  to  the  holster. 

It  still  seemed  incredible  that  the  man  could 
have  drawn  his  gun  and  fired  it  in  that  flash  of 
time.  He  recalled  his  adventure  with  Butch  earlier 
that  evening  and  with  Sandy  Ferguson  before; 
for  the  first  time  he  realized  what  he  had  done 
and  a  cold  horror  possessed  him  like  the  man  who 
has  nerves  to  walk  the  tight  rope  across  the  chasm 
and  faints  when  he  looks  back  on  the  gorge  from 


Butch  Returns 


the  safety  of  the  other  side.    The  girl  took  com 
mand. 

"Steve,  run  down  to  the  marshal's  office; 
Deputy  Glendin  is  there." 

vShe  took  the  wet  cloth  and  made  a  deft  band 
age  for  the  head  of  Conklin.  With  his  shaggy 
hair  covered,  and  all  his  face  sagging  with  lines 
of  weariness,  the  gun-fighter  seemed  no  more 
than  a  middle-aged  man  asleep,  worn  out  by 
trouble. 

"Is  there  a  doctor?"  asked  Bard  anxiously. 

"That  ain't  a  case  for  a  doctor  —  look  here; 
you're  in  a  blue  faint.  What  is  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know;  I'm  thinking  of  that  quarter 
of  an  inch  which  would  have  meant  the  difference 
to  poor  Conklin.  " 

"'Poor'  Conklin?  Why,  you  fish,  he  was 
sneakin'  in  here  to  try  his  hand  on  you.  He 
found  out  he  couldn't  get  his  gang  into  town,  so  he 
slipped  in  by  himself.  He'll  get  ten  years  for  this 
—  and  a  thousand  if  they  hold  him  up  for  the  other 
things  he's  done." 

'  '  I  know  —  and  this  fellow  Nash  was  as  quiet  as 
the  strike  of  a  snake.  If  he'd  been  a  fraction  of  a 
second  slower  I  might  be  where  Conklin  is  now. 
I'll  never  forget  Nash  for  this." 

She  said  pointedly:  "No,  he's  a  bad  one  to  for- 


152  Trailin' 

get;  keep  an  eye  on  him.  You  spoke  of  a  snake — 
that's  how  smooth  Steve  is. " 

"Remember  your  own  motto,  Miss  Fortune. 
He  saved  my  life;  therefore  I  must  trust  him." 

She  answered  sullenly:  "You're  your  own  boss. " 

"What's  wrong  with  Nash?" 

"Find  out  for  yourself. " 

"Are  all  these  fellows  something  other  than 
they  seem  ? " 

"What  about  yourself?" 

"How  do  you  mean  that?" 

"What  trail  are  you  on,  Bard?  Don't  look  so 
innocent.  Oh,  I  seen  you  was  after  something  a 
longtime  ago." 

"I  am.    After  excitement,  you  know. " 

"Ain't  you  finding  enough?" 

"I've  got  two  things  ahead  of  me. " 

"Well?" 

"This  trip,  and  when  I  come  back  I  think 
making  love  to  you  would  be  more  exciting  than 
gun-plays." 

They  regarded  each  other  with  bantering  smiles. 

"A  tenderfoot  like  you  make  love  to  me?  That 
would  be  exciting,  all  right,  if  it  wasn't  so  funny. " 

"As  for  the  competition,"  he  said  serenely, 
"that  would  be  simply  a  good  background. " 

"Hate  yourself,  don't  you,  Bard?"  she  grinned. 


Butch  Returns  153 

"The  rest  of  these  boys  are  all  very  well,  but 
they  don't  see  that  what  you  want  is  the  velvet 
touch." 

"What's  that?" 

She  was  as  frankly  curious  as  some  boy  hearing 
a  new  game  described. 

"You've  only  been  loved  in  one  way.  These 
rough-handed  fellows  come  in  and  throw  an  arm 
around  you  and  ask  you  to  marry  them;  isn't  that 
it?  What  you  really  need,  is  an  old,  simple,  but 
very  effective  method. " 

Though  her  eyes  were  shining,  she  yawned. 

"It  don't  interest  me,  Bard." 

"On  the  contrary,  you're  getting  quite  excited. " 

"So  does  a  horse  before  it  gets  ready  to  buck. " 

"Exactly.  If  I  thought  it  would  be  easy  J 
wouldn't  be  tempted. " 

"Well,  if  you  like  fighting  you've  sure  mapped 
out  a  nice  sizeable  quarrel  with  me,  Bud. " 

"Good.  I'm  certainly  coming  back  to  Eldara. 
Now  about  this  method  of  mine " 

' '  Throwing  your  cards  on  the  table,  eh  ?  What 
you  got,  Bard,  a  royal  flush?" 

"Right  again.  It's  a  very  simple  method  but 
you  couldn't  beat  it.  " 

"Bud,  you  ain't  half  old  enough  to  kid  me.  " 

"What  you  need,"   he  persisted  calmly,    "is 


i54  Trailin' 

someone  who  would  sit  down  and  simply  talk 
good,  plain  English  to  you." 

"Let  'ergo." 

"In  the  first  place  I  will  call  attention  to  your 
method  of  dressing." 

"Anything  wrong  with  it?" 

"I  knew  you'd  be  interested." 

She  slipped  into  a  chair  and  sat  cross-legged  in 
it,  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  cupped 
in  both  her  hands. 

' '  Sure  I'm  interested.  If  there's  a  new  way  fixin* 
ham-and,  serve  it  out." 

"I  would  begin,"  he  went  on  judiciously,  "by 
saying  that  you  dressed  in  five  minutes  in  the 
dark." 

"It's  generally  dark  at  5  A.M.,"  she  admitted. 

"You  look,  on  the  whole,  as  if  you'd  fallen  into 
your  clothes." 

The  wounded  man  stirred  and  groaned  faintly. 

She  called:  "Lie  down,  Butch;  I'm  busy.  Go 
on,  Bard." 

"If  you  keep  a  mirror  it's  a  wall  decoration — 
not  for  personal  use." 

"Maybe  this  is  an  old  method,  Bard;  but  around 
this  place  it'd  be  a  quick  way  of  gettin'  shot." 

"Angry?" 

"You'd  peeve  a  mule." 


Butch  Returns  155 

"This  was  only  an  introduction.  The  next 
thing  is  to  sit  close  beside  you  and  shift  the  lamp 
so  that  the  light  would  shine  on  your  face;  then 
take  your  hand ' 

He  suited  his  action  to  his  word. 

"Let  go  my  hand,  Bard.  It's  like  the  rest  of 
me — not  a  decoration  but  for  use. " 

"Afraid  of  me,  Sally?" 

"Not  of  a  regiment  like  you." 

"Then  of  my  method?" 

"Go  on;  I'm  game." 

"But  this  is  all  there  is  to  it. " 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  Having  observed  that  you 
haven't  set  off  any  of  your  advantages,  I  will  sit 
here  and  look  into  your  face  in  silence,  which  is  as 
much  as  to  say  that  no  matter  how  you  dress  you 
can't  spoil  a  very  excellent  figure,  Sally.  I  suppose 
you've  heard  that  before?" 

"Lots  of  times,  "  she  muttered. 

"But  you  wouldn't  hear  it  from  me.  All  I 
would  do  would  be  to  sit  and  stare  and  let  you 
imagine  what  I'm  thinking.  And  you'd  begin  to 
see  that  in  spite  of  the  way  you  do  your  hair  you 
can't  spoil  its  colour  nor  its  texture. " 

He  raised  his  other  hand  and  touched  it. 

4 'Like  silk,  Sally." 


Trailin' 


He  studied  her  closely,  noting  the  flush  which 
began  to  touch  her  cheeks. 

"Part  of  the  game  is  for  you  to  keep  looking 
me  in  the  eye." 

"Well,  I'll  be-     Go  on,  I'm  game.  " 

"Is  it  hard  to  sit  like  this  —  silently?  Do  I  do  it 
badly?" 

"No,  you  show  lots  of  practice.  How  many 
have  you  tried  this  method  on,  Bard?" 

He  made  a  vague  gesture  and  then,  smiling: 
"Millions,  Sally,  and  they  all  liked  it.  " 

"So  do  I." 

And  they  laughed  together,  and  grew  serious 
at  the  same  instant. 

"All  silence  —  like  this?"  she  queried. 

"No;  after  a  while  I  would  say:  'You  are 
beautiful.'" 

"You  don't  get  a  blue  ribbon  for  that,  Bard.  " 

"Not  for  the  words,  but  the  way  they're  said, 
which  shows  I  mean  them.  " 

She  blinked  as  though  to  clear  her  eyes  and  then 
met  his  stare  again. 

"You  know  you  are  beautiful,  Sally." 

"With  a  pug  nose  —  freckles  —  and  all  that?" 

"Just  a  tip-tilt  in  the  nose,  Sally.  Why,  it's 
charming.  And  you  have  everything  else  —  young, 
strong,  graceful,  clear." 


Butch  Returns  15? 

' '  What  d'  you  mean  by  that  ? ' ' 

"Clear?  Fresh  and  colourful  like  the  sunset 
over  the  desert.  Do  you  understand  ? ' ' 

Her  eyes  went  down  to  consider. 

"Is'poseldo." 

"With  a  touch  of  awe  in  it,  because  the  silence 
and  the  night  are  coming,  and  the  stars  walk 
down,  one  by  one — one  by  one.  And  the  wind  is 
low,  soft,  musical,  whispering,  as  you  do  now — 
What  if  this  were  not  a  game  of  suppose, 
Sally?" 

She  wrenched  herself  suddenly  away,  rising. 

"I'm  tired  of  supposing!"  she  cried. 

"Then  we'll  call  it  all  real.    What  of  that?" 

That  colour  was  unmistakably  high  now;  it  ran 
down  from  her  cheeks  and  even  stained  the  pure 
white  of  the  throat  where  the  flap  of  the  shirt  was 
open.  He  was  excited  as  a  hunter  who  has  tracked 
some  new  and  dangerous  animal  and  at  last  driven 
it  to  bay,  holding  his  gun  poised,  and  not  knowing 
whether  or  not  it  will  prove  vulnerable. 

He  stepped  close,  eager,  prepared  for  any  wild 
burst  of  temper;  but  she  let  him  take  her  hands, 
let  him  draw  her  close,  bend  back  her  head;  hold 
her  closer  still,  till  the  warmth  and  softness  of  her 
body  reached  him,  but  when  his  lips  came  close 
she  said  quietly:  "Are  you  a  rotter,  Bard?" 


Trailin' 


He  stiffened  and  the  smile  went  out  on  his  lips. 
He  stepped  back. 

She  repeated:  "Are  you  a  rotter?" 

He  raised  the  one  hand  which  he  still  retained 
and  touched  it  to  his  lips. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Anthony,  "will  you 
forgive  me?" 

And  with  her  eyes  large  and  grave  upon  him  she 
answered:  "I  wonder  if  I  can!" 

Butch  Conklin  looked  up,  raising  his  bandaged 
head  slowly,  like  a  white  flag  of  truce,  with  a  stain 
of  red  growing  through  the  cloth.  He  stared  at 
the  two,  raised  a  hand  to  his  head  as  though  to 
rub  away  the  dream,  found  a  pain  too  real  for  a 
dream,  and  then,  like  a  crab  which  has  grown 
almost  too  old  to  walk,  waddled  on  hands  and 
knees,  slowly,  from  the  room  and  melted  silently 
into  the  dark  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FOOLISH   HABITS 

A  SHARP  noise  of  running  feet  leaped  from  the 
dust  of  the  street  and  clattered  through  the  door 
way;  the  two  turned.  A  swarthy  man,  broad  of 
shoulder,  was  the  first,  and  afterward  appeared 
Nash. 

"Conklin?"  called  Deputy  Glendin,  and  swept 
the  room  with  his  startled  glance.  "Where's 
Conklin?" 

He  was  not  there ;  only  a  red  stain  remained  on 
the  floor  to  show  where  he  had  lain. 

"Where's  Conklin?"  called  Nash. 

"I'm  afraid,"  whispered  Bard  quickly  to  the 
girl,  "that  it  was  more  than  a  game  of  suppose." 

He  sai d  easily  to  the  other  two : ' '  He  had  enough. 
His  share  of  trouble  came  to-night;  I  let  him  go." 

"Young  feller,"  growled  Glendin,  "you  ain't 
been  in  town  a  long  while,  but  I've  heard  a  pile  too 
much  about  you  already.  What  you  mean  by 
takin'  the  law  into  your  own  hands? " 

159 


160  Trailin' 

"Wait,"  said  Nash,  his  keen  eyes  on  the  two, 
"I  guess  I  understand." 

"Let's  have  it,  then." 

Still  the  steady  eyes  of  Nash  passed  from  Sally 
Fortune  to  Bard  and  back  again. 

"This  feller  bein'  a  tenderfoot,  he  don't  under 
stand  our  ways;  maybe  he  thinks  the  range  is  a  bit 
freer  than  it  is. " 

"That's  the  trouble,"  answered  Glendin,  "he 
thinks  too  damned  much. " 

"And  does  quite  a  pile  besides  thinkin'," 
murmured  Nash,  but  too  low  for  the  others  to 
hear  it. 

He  hesitated,  and  then,  as  if  making  up  his 
mind  by  a  great  effort :  "There  ain't  no  use  blamin' 
him;  better  let  it  drop,  Glendin. " 

"Nothin'  else  to  do,  Steve;  but  it's  funny  Sally 
let  him  do  it.  " 

"It  is,"  said  Nash  with  emphasis,  "but  then 
women  is  pretty  funny  in  lots  of  ways.  Ready  to 
start,  Bard?" 

"All  ready." 

"Slong,  Sally." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Fortune." 

"Evenin',  boys.  We'll  be  lookin'  for  you  back 
in  Eldara  to-morrow  night,  Bard. " 

And  her  eyes  fixed  with  meaning  on  Nash. 


Foolish  Habits  161 

"Certainly,  "  answered  the  other,  "my  business 
ought  not  to  take  longer  than  that." 

"I'll  take  him  by  the  shortest  cut,"  said  Nash, 
and  the  two  went  out  to  their  horses. 

They  had  difficulty  in  riding  the  trail  side  by 
side,  for  though  the  roan  was  somewhat  rested  by 
the  delay  at  Eldara  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him 
up  with  Bard's  prancing  piebald,  which  side 
stepped  at  every  shadow.  Yet  the  tenderfoot 
never  allowed  his  mount  to  pass  entirely  ahead  of 
the  roan,  but  kept  checking  him  back  hard,  turn 
ing  toward  Nash  with  an  apology  each  time  he 
surged  ahead.  It  might  have  been  merely  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  precede  the  cowpuncher  on  a 
trail  which  he  did  not  know.  It  might  have  been 
something  quite  other  than  this  which  made  him 
consistently  keep  to  the  rear;  Nash  felt  certain 
that  the  second  possibility  was  the  truth. 

In  that  case  his  work  would  be  doubly  hard. 
From  all  that  he  had  seen  the  man  was  dangerous 
— the  image  of  the  tame  puma  returned  to  him 
again  and  again.  He  could  not  see  him  plainly 
through  the  dark  of  the  night,  but  he  caught  the 
sway  of  the  body  and  recognized  a  perfect  horse 
manship,  not  a  Western  style  of  riding,  but  a  good 
one  no  matter  where  it  was  learned.  He  rode  as  if 
he  were  sewed  to  the  back  of  the  horse,  and,  as  old 


1 62  Trailin' 

William  Drew  had  suggested,  he  probably  did 
other  things  up  to  the  same  standard.  It  would 
have  been  hard  to  fulfil  his  promise  to  Drew  under 
any  circumstances  with  such  a  man  as  this;  but 
with  Bard  apparently  forewarned  and  suspicious 
the  thing  became  almost  impossible. 

Almost,  but  not  entirely  so.  He  set  himself 
calmly  to  the  problem;  on  the  horn  of  his  saddle 
the  lariat  hung  loose;  if  the  Easterner  should  turn 
his  back  for  a  single  instant  during  all  the  time 
they  were  together  old  Drew  should  not  be  dis 
appointed,  and  one  thousand  cash  would  be  de 
posited  for  the  mutual  interest  of  Sally  Fortune 
and  himself.  That  is  to  say,  if  Sally  would  consent 
to  become  interested.  To  the  silent  persuasion  of 
money,  however,  Nash  trusted  many  things. 

The  roan  jogged  sullenly  ahead,  giving  all  the 
strength  of  his  gallant,  ugly  body  to  the  work ;  the 
piebald  mustang  pranced  like  a  dancing  master 
beside  and  behind  with  a  continual  jingling  of  the 
tossed  bridle. 

The  masters  were  to  a  degree  like  the  horses 
they  rode,  for  Nash  kept  steadily  leaning  to  the 
front,  his  bulldog  jaw  thrusting  out;  and  Bard 
was  forever  shifting  in  the  saddle,  settling  his  hat, 
humming  a  tune,  whistling,  talking  to  the  piebald, 
or  asking  idle  questions  of  the  things  they  passed, 


Foolish  Habits  163 

like  a  boy  starting  out  for  a  vacation.  So  they 
reached  the  old  house  of  which  Nash  had  spoken — 
a  mere,  shapeless,  black  heap  huddling  through 
the  night. 

In  the  shed  to  the  rear  they  tied  the  horses  and 
unsaddled.  In  the  single  room  of  the  shanty, 
afterward,  Nash  lighted  a  candle,  which  he  pro 
duced  from  his  pack,  placed  it  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  and  they  unrolled  their  blankets  on  the  two 
bunks  which  were  built  against  the  wall  on  either 
side  of  the  narrow  apartment. 

Truly  it  was  a  crazy  shack — such  a  building  as 
two  men,  having  the  materials  at  hand,  might  put 
together  in  a  single  day.  It  was  hardly  based  on  a 
foundation,  but  rather  set  on  the  slope  side  of  the 
hill,  and  accordingly  had  settled  down  on  the  lower 
side  toward  the  door.  Not  an  old  place,  but  the 
wind  had  pried  and  the  rain  warped  generous 
cracks  between  the  boards  through  which  the  rising 
storm  whistled  and  sang  and  through  which  the 
chill  mist  of  the  coming  rain  cut  at  them. 

Now  and  then  a  feeling  came  to  Anthony  that 
the  gale  might  lift  the  tottering  old  shack  and 
roll  it  on  down  the  hillside  to  the  floor  of  the  valley, 
for  it  rocked  and  swayed  under  the  breath  of  the 
storm.  In  a  way  it  was  as  if  the  night  was  giving 
a  loud  voice  to  the  silent  struggle  of  the  two 


164  Trailin' 

men,  who  continued  pleasant,  careless  with  each 
other. 

But  when  Nash  stepped  across  the  room  behind 
Bard,  the  latter  turned  and  was  busy  with  the 
folding  of  his  blankets  at  the  foot  of  his  bunk,  his 
face  toward  the  cowpuncher  and  when  Bard,  slip 
ping  off  his  belt,  fumbled  at  his  holster,  Nash  was 
instantly  busy  with  the  cleaning  of  his  own  gun. 

The  cattleman,  having  removed  his  boots,  his 
hat,  and  his  belt,  was  ready  for  bed,  and  slipped 
his  legs  under  the  blankets.  He  stooped  and 
picked  up  his  lariat,  which  lay  coiled  on  the  floor 
beside  him. 

"People  gets  into  toolish  habits  on  the  range," 
he  said,  thumbing  the  strong  rope  curiously,  and 
so  doing,  spreading  out  the  noose. 

"Yes?"  smiled  Bard,  a»d  he  also  sat  up  in  his 
bunk. 

"It's  like  a  kid.  Give  him  a  new  toy  and  he 
wants  to  take  it  to  bed  with  him.  Ever  notice?" 

"Surely." 

"That's  the  way  with  me.  When  I  go  to  bed 
nothin'  matters  with  me  except  that  I  have  my 
lariat  around.  I  generally  like  to  have  it  hangin' 
on  a  nail  at  the  head  of  my  bunk.  The  fellers 
always  laugh  at  me,  but  I  can't  help  it;  makes  me 
feel  more  at  home. " 


Foolish  Habits  165 

And  with  that,  still  smiling  at  his  own  folly  in 
a  rather  shamefaced  way,  he  turned  in  the  blankets 
and  dropped  the  big  coil  of  the  lariat  over  a  nail 
which  projected  from  the  boards  just  over  the 
head  of  his  bunk.  The  noose  was  outermost  and 
could  be  disengaged  from  the  nail  by  a  single  twist 
of  the  cowpuncher's  hand  as  he  lay  passive  in  the 
bunk. 

On  this  noose  Bard  cast  a  curious  eye.  To  city- 
folk  a  piece  of  rope  is  a  harmless  thing  with  which 
one  may  make  a  trunk  secure  or  on  occasion  con 
struct  a  clothes  line  on  the  roof  of  the  apartment 
building,  or  in  the  kitchen  on  rainy  Mondays. 

To  a  sailor  the  rope  is  nothing  and  everything 
at  once.  Give  a  seaman  even  a  piece  of  string  and 
he  will  amuse  himself  all  evening  making  lashings 
and  knots.  A  piece  of  rope  calls  up  in  his  mind 
the  stout  lines  which  hold  the  masts  steady  and 
the  yards  true  in  the  gale,  the  comfortable  cable 
which  moors  the  ship  at  the  end  of  the  dreary 
voyage,  and  a  thousand  things  between. 

To  the  Westerner  a  rope  is  a  different  thing. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  useful  material  as  a  weapon. 
An  Italian,  fighting  man  to  man,  would  choose  a 
knife;  a  Westerner  would  take  in  preference  that 
same  harmless  piece  of  rope.  In  his  hands  it  takes 
on  life,  it  gains  a  strange  and  sinister  quality.  One 


166  Trailin' 

instant  it  lies  passive,  or  slowly  whirled  in  a  care 
less  circle — the  next  its  noose  darts  out  like  the 
head  of  a  striking  cobra,  the  coil  falls  and  fastens, 
and  then  it  draws  tighter  and  tighter,  remorse 
lessly  as  a  boa  constrictor,  paralyzing  life. 

Something  of  all  this  went  through  the  mind  of 
Bard  as  he  lay  watching  the  limp  noose  of  the  cow 
boy's  lariat,  and  then  he  nodded  smiling. 

4  *  I  suppose  that  seems  an  odd  habit  to  some  men, 
but  I  sympathize  with  it.  I  have  it  myself,  in 
fact.  And  whenever  I'm  out  in  the  wilds  and 
carry  a  gun  I  like  to  have  it  under  my  head  when  I 
sleep.  That's  even  queerer  than  your  fancy,  isn't 
it?" 

And  he  slipped  his  revolver  under  the  blankets 
at  the  head  of  his  bunk. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  CANDLE 

"YES,"  said  Nash,  "that's  a  queer  stunt, 
because  when  you're  lyin'  like  that  with  your  head 
right  over  the  gun  and  the  blankets  in  between,  it'd 
take  you  a  couple  of  seconds  to  get  it  out. " 

"Not  when  you're  used  to  it.  You'd  be  sur 
prised  to  see  how  quickly  a  man  can  get  the  gun 
out  from  under." 

"That  so?" 

"Yes,  and  shooting  while  you're  lying  on  your 
back  is  pretty  easy,  too,  when  you've  had  practice." 

"Sure,  with  a  rifle,  but  not  with  a  revolver." 

"Well,  do  you  see  that  bit  of  paper  in  the  corner 
there  up  on  the  rafter  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

The  hand  of  Bard  whipped  under  his  head,  there 
was  a  gleam  and  whirl  of  steel,  an  explosion,  and 
the  bit  of  paper  came  fluttering  slowly  down  from 
the  rafter,  like  a  wounded  bird  struggling  to  keep 
up  in  the  air.  A  draft  caught  the  paper  just  before 

167 


i68  Trailin' 

it  landed  and  whirled  it  through  the  doorless  en 
trance  and  out  into  the  night. 

He  was  yawning  as  he  restored  the  gun  beneath 
the  blanket,  but  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw 
the  hardening  of  Nash's  face,  a  brief  change  which 
came  and  went  like  the  passing  of  a  shadow. 

"That's  something  I'll  remember, "  drawled  the 
cowpuncher. 

"You  ought  to,"  answered  the  other  quickly, 
"it  comes  in  handy  now  and  then. " 

"Feel  sleepy?" 

The  candle  guttered  and  flickered  on  the  floor 
midway  between  the  two  bunks,  and  Bard,  glanc 
ing  to  it,  was  about  to  move  from  his  bed  and  snufl 
it ;  but  at  the  thought  of  so  doing  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  he  could  almost  sense  with  prophetic  mind  the 
upward  dart  of  the  noose  about  his  shoulders.  He 
edged  a  little  lower  in  the  blankets. 

"Not  a  bit.    How  about  you?" 

"Me?  I  most  generally  lie  awake  a  while  and 
gab  after  I  hit  the  hay.  Makes  me  sleep  better 
afterward." 

"I  do  the  same  thing  when  I've  any  one  who 
listens  to  me — or  talks  to  me. " 

' '  Queer  how  many  habits  we  got  the  same,  eh  ? " 

"It  is.  But  after  all,  most  of  us  are  more  alike 
than  we  care  to  imagine. " 


The  Candle  169 

"Yes,  there  ain't  much  difference;  sometimes 
the  difference  ain't  as  much  as  a  split-second  watch 
would  catch,  but  it  may  mean  that  one  feller  passes 
out  and  the  other  goes  on. " 

They  lay  half  facing  each  other,  each  with  his 
head  pillowed  on  an  arm. 

"By  Jove!  lucky  we  reached  this  shelter  before 
the  rain  came. " 

"Yep.  A  couple  of  hours  of  this  and  the  rivers 
will  be  up — may  take  up  all  day  to  get  back  to  the 
ranch  if  we  have  to  ride  up  to  the  ford  on  the 
Saver  ack." 

"Then  well  swim  'em." 

The  other  smiled  drily. 

"Swim  the  Saverack  when  she's  up?  No,  lad, 
we  won't  do  that." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  work  it  alone,  I  suppose. 
You  see,  I  have  that  date  in  Eldara  for  to-morrow 
night." 

Nash  set  his  teeth,  to  choke  back  the  cough. 
He  produced  papers  and  tobacco,  rolled  a  cigarette 
with  lightning  speed,  lighted  it,  and  inhaled  a  long 
puff. 

"Sure,  you  ought  to  keep  that  date,  but  maybe 
Sally  would  wait  till  the  night  after.  " 

"She  impressed  me,  on  the  whole,  as  not  being 
of  the  waiting  kind.  " 


1 70  Trailm' 

' '  H-m !  A  little  delay  does  'em  good ;  gives  'ein  a 
chance  to  think." 

"Why,  every  man  has  his  own  way  with  women, 
I  suppose,  but  my  idea  is,  keep  them  busy — never 
give  them  a  chance  to  think.  If  you  do,  they 
generally  waste  the  chance  and  forget  you  al 
together.  " 

Another  coughing  spell  overtook  Nash  and  left 
him  frowning  down  at  the  glowing  end  of  his  butt. 

"She  ain't  like  the  rest." 

"I  wonder?"  mused  the  Easterner. 

He  had  an  infinite  advantage  in  this  duel  of 
words,  for  he  could  watch  from  under  the  shadow 
of  his  long,  dark  lashes  the  effect  of  his  speeches  on 
the  cowboy,  yet  never  seem  to  be  looking.  For  he 
was  wondering  whether  the  enmity  of  Nash, 
which  he  felt  as  one  feels  an  unknown  eye  upon 
him  in  the  dark,  came  from  their  rivalry  about  the 
girl,  or  from  some  deeper  cause.  He  was  inclined 
to  think  that  the  girl  was  the  bottom  of  everything, 
but  he  left  his  mind  open  on  the  subject. 

And  Nash,  pondering  darkly  and  silently,  mea 
sured  the  strength  of  the  slender  stranger  and  felt 
that  if  he  were  the  club  the  other  was  the  knife 
which  made  less  sound  but  might  prove  more 
deadly.  Above  all  he  was  conscious  of  the  Eas 
terner's  superiority  of  language,  which  might  turn 


The  Candle  171 

the  balance  against  him  in  the  ear  of  Sally  Fortune. 
He  dropped  the  subject  of  the  girl. 

"You  was  huntin'  over  on  the  old  place  on  the 
other  side  of  the  range?" 

"Yes." 

' '  Pretty  fair  run  of  game  ? ' ' 

"Rather." 

"I  think  you  said  something  about  Logan?" 

"Did  I?  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about 
him.  He  gave  me  the  wrong  tip  about  the  way 
to  Eldara.  When  I  get  back  to  the  old  place " 

"Well?" 

The  other  smiled  unpleasantly  and  made  a 
gesture  as  if  he  were  snapping  a  twig  between  his 
hands. 

"I'll  break  him  in  two.  " 

The  eyes  of  Nash  grew  wide  with  astonishment ; 
he  was  remembering  that  same  phrase  on  the  lips 
of  the  big,  grey  man,  Drew. 

He  murmured:  "That  may  give  you  a  little 
trouble.  Logan's  a  peaceable  chap,  but  he  has  his 
record  before  he  got  down  as  low  as  sheepherdin'. " 

"I  like  trouble — now  and  then. " 

A  pause. 

"Odd  old  shack  over  there. " 

11  Drew's  old  house?" 

"Yes.    There's  a  grave  in  front  of  it. " 


172  Trailin' 

"And  there's  quite  a  yarn  inside  the  grave. " 

The  cowpuncher  was  aware  that  the  other 
stirred — not  much,  but  as  if  he  winced  from  a 
drop  of  cold  water ;  he  felt  that  he  was  close  on  the 
trail  of  the  real  reason  why  the  Easterner  wished 
to  see  Drew. 

"A  story  about  Drew's  wife?"    * 

"You  read  the  writing  on  the  headstone,  eh?" 

"'Joan,  she  chose  this  place  for  rest,'"  quoted 
Bard. 

"That  was  all  before  my  time;  it  was  before  the 
time  of  any  others  in  these  parts,  but  a  few  of  the 
grey -beards  know  a  bit  about  the  story  and  I've 
gathered  a  little  of  it  from  Drew,  though  he  ain't 
much  of  a  talker. ' ' 

"I'd  like  to  hear  it." 

Sensitively  aware  of  Bard,  as  a  photographic 
plate  is  aware  of  light  on  exposures,  the  cow- 
puncher  went  on  with  the  tale. 

And  Bard,  his  glance  probing  among  the 
shadowy  rafters  of  the  room,  seemed  to  be  search 
ing  there  for  the  secret  on  whose  trail  he  rode. 
Through  the  interims  the  rain  crashed  and  vol 
leyed  on  the  roof  above  them;  the  cold  spray 
whipped  down  on  them  through  the  cracks;  the 
wind  shook  and  rattled  the  crazy  house;  and  the 
drawling  voice  of  Nash  went  on  and  on. 


CHAPTER  XX 

JOAN 

"THEM  were  the  days  when  this  was  a  man's 
country,  which  a  man  could  climb  on  his  hoss  with 
a  gun  and  a  rope  and  touch  heaven  and  hell  in 
one  day's  ridin'.  Them  good  old  days  ain't  no 
more.  I've  heard  the  old  man  tell  about  'em. 
Now  they've  got  everybody  stamped  and  branded 
with  law  an'  order,  herded  together  like  cattle, 
ticketed,  done  for.  That's  the  way  the  range  is 
now.  The  marshals  have  us  by  the  throat.  In 
the  old  days  a  sheriff  that  outlived  his  term  was 
probably  crooked  and  runnin'  hand  in  hand  with 
the  long-riders." 

"Long-riders?"  queried  Bard. 

"Fellers  that  got  tired  of  workin'  and  took  to 
ridin'  for  their  livin'.  Mostly  they  worked  in  little 
gangs  of  five  and  six.  They  was  called  long-riders, 
I  guess,  partly  because  they  was  in  the  saddle  all 
the  time,  and  partly  because  they  done  their  jobs 
so  far  apart.  They'd  ride  into  Eldara  and  blow 

173 


i?4  Trailin' 

up  the  safe  in  the  bank  one  day,  for  instance,  and 
five  days  later  they'd  be  two  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  away  stoppin'  a  train  at  Lewis  Station. 

"They  never  hung  around  no  one  part  of  the 
country  and  that  made  it  hard  as  hell  to  run  'em 
down — that  and  because  they  had  the  best  hosses 
that  money  could  buy.  They  had  friends,  too, 
strung  out  all  over — squatters  and  the  like  of 
that.  They'd  drop  in  on  these  little  fellers  and 
pass  'em  a  couple  of  twenties  and  make  themselves 
solid  for  life.  Afterward  they  used  'em  for  stoppin' 
places. 

"They'd  pull  off  a  couple  of  hold-ups,  then 
they'd  ride  off  to  one  of  these  squatter  places  and 
lay  up  for  ten  days,  maybe,  drinkin'  and  feedin' 
up  themselves  and  their  hosses.  That  was  the 
only  way  they  was  ever  caught.  They  was  killed 
off  by  each  other,  fighting  about  the  split-up,  or 
something  like  that. 

"But  now  and  then  a  gang  held  together  long 
enough  to  raise  so  much  hell  that  they  got  known 
from  one  end  of  the  range  to  the  other.  Mostly 
they  held  together  because  they  had  a  leader  who 
knew  how  to  handle  'em  and  who  kept  'em  under 
his  thumb.  That  was  the  way  with  old  Piotto. 

"He  had  five  men  under  him.  They  was  all 
hell-benders  who  had  ridden  the  range  alone  and 


Joan  i?5 

had  their  share  of  fights  and  killings,  which  there 
wasn't  one  of  'em  that  wouldn't  have  been  good 
enough  to  go  leader  in  any  other  crew,  but  they 
had  to  knuckle  under  to  old  Piotto.  He  was  a 
great  gunman  and  he  was  pretty  good  in  scheming 
up  ways  of  dodging  the  law  and  picking  the  best 
booty.  He  had  these  five  men,  and  then  he  had 
his  daughter,  Joan.  She  was  better'n  two  ordinary 
men  herself. 

"Three  years  that  gang  held  together  and  got 
rich — fair  rich.  They  made  it  so  fast  they  couldn't 
even  gamble  the  stuff  away.  About  a  thousand 
times,  I  guess  posses  went  out  after  Piotto,  but 
they  never  came  back  with  a  trace  of  'em;  they 
never  got  within  shootin'  distance.  Finally  Piotto 
got  so  confident  that  he  started  raidin'  ranches 
and  carryin'  off  members  of  well-off  ranchers  to 
hold  for  ransom.  That  was  the  easiest  way  of 
makin'  money;  it  was  also  pretty  damned  dan 
gerous. 

"One  time  they  held  up  a  stage  and  picked  off 
of  it  two  kids  who  was  comin'  out  from  the  East 
to  try  their  hands  in  the  cattle  business.  They 
was  young,  they  looked  like  gentlemen,  they  was 
dressed  nifty,  and  they  packed  big  rolls.  So  wise 
old  Piotto  took  'em  off  into  the  hills  and  held  'em 
till  their  folks  back  East  could  wire  out  the  money 


1 76  Trailin' 

to  save  'em.  That  was  easy  money  for  Piotto,  but 
that  was  the  beginnin'  of  the  end  for  him ;  because 
while  they  was  waitin',  them  two  kids  seen  Joan 
and  seen  her  good. 

"I  been  telling  you  she  was  better  'n  two  com 
mon  men.  She  was.  Which  means  she  was  equal 
to  about  ten  ordinary  girls.  There's  still  a  legend 
about  how  beautiful  Joan  Piotto  was — tall  and 
straight  and  big  black  eyes  and  terrible  handy  with 
her  gun.  She  could  ride  anything  that  walked  and 
she  didn't  know  what  fear  meant. 

"These  two  kids  seen  her.  One  of  'em  was 
William  Drew;  one  of  'em  was  John  Bard." 

He  turned  to  Anthony  and  saw  that  the  latter 
was  stern  of  face.  He  had  surely  scored  his  point. 

"Same  name  as  yours,  eh? "  he  asked,  to  explain 
his  turning. 

"It's  a  common  enough  name,"  murmured  Bard. 

"Well,  them  two  had  come  out  to  be  partners, 
and  there  they  was,  fallin'  in  love  with  the  same 
girl.  So  when  they  got  free  they  put  their  heads 
together — bein'  uncommon  wise  kids — and  figured 
it  out  this  way.  Neither  of  'em  had  a  chance 
workin'  alone  to  get  Joan  way  from  her  father's 
gang,  but  workin'  together  they  might  have  a 
ghost  of  a  show.  So  they  decided  to  stay  on  the 
trail  of  Piotto  till  they  got  Joan.  Then  they'd 


Joan  177 

give  her  a  choice  between  the  two  of  'em  and  the 
one  that  lost  would  simply  back  off  the  boards. 

4 '  They  done  what  they  agreed.  For  six  months 
they  stuck  on  the  trail  of  old  Piotto  and  never  got 
in  hailin'  distance  of  him.  Then  they  come  on 
the  gang  while  they  were  restin'  up  in  the  house  of 
a  squatter. 

"That  was  a  pretty  night.  Drew  and  Bard 
went  through  that  gang.  It  sounds  like  a  nice 
fairy-story,  all  right,  but  I  know  old  fellers  who  11 
swear  it's  true.  They  killed  three  of  the  men  with 
their  guns;  they  knifed  another  one,  an'  they 
killed  Riley  with  their  bare  hands.  It  wasn't  no 
pretty  sight  to  see — the  inside  of  that  house.  And 
last  of  all  they  got  Piotto,  fightin'  like  an  old  wild 
cat,  into  a  corner  with  his  daughter;  and  William 
Drew,  he  took  Piotto  into  his  arms  and  busted  his 
back.  That  don't  sound  possible,  but  when  you 
see  Drew  you'll  know  how  it  was  done. 

"The  girl,  she'd  been  knocked  cold  before  this 
happened.  So  while  Bard  and  Drew  sat  together 
bindin'  up  each  other 's  wounds — because  they  was 
shot  pretty  near  to  pieces — they  talked  it  over  and 
they  seen  pretty  clear  that  the  girl  would  never 
marry  the  man  that  had  killed  her  father.  Of 
course,  old  Bill  Drew,  he'd  done  the  killing,  but  that 
wasn't  any  reason  why  he  had  to  take  the  blame. 

12 


Trailin' 


"They  made  up  their  minds  that  right  there 
and  then  with  the  dead  men  lyin'  all  around  'em, 
they'd  match  coins  to  see  which  one  would  take 
the  blame  of  havin'  killed  Piotto  —  meanin'  that 
the  other  one  would  get  the  girl  —  if  he  could. 

"And  Bard  lost.  So  he  had  to  take  the  credit 
of  havin'  killed  old  Piotto.  I'd  of  give  something 
to  have  seen  the  two  of  'em  sittin'  there  —  oozin' 
blood  —  after  that  mar  chin'  was  decided.  Because 
they  tell  me  that  Bard  was  as  big  as  Drew  and 
looked  pretty  much  the  same. 

"Then  Bard,  he  asked  Drew  to  let  him  have  one 
chance  at  the  girl,  lettin'  her  know  first  what  he'd 
done,  but  jest  trustin'  to  his  power  of  talk.  Which, 
of  course,  didn't  give  him  no  show.  While  he  was 
makin'  love  to  the  girl  she  outs  with  a  knife  and 
tries  to  stick  him  —  nice,  pleasant  sort  she  must 
have  been  —  and  Drew,  he  had  to  pry  the  two  of 
'em  apart. 

"That  made  the  girl  look  sort  of  kind  on  Drew 
and  she  swore  that  sooner  or  later  she'd  have  the 
blood  of  Bard  for  what  he'd  done  —  either  have  it 
herself  or  else  send  someone  after  him  to  the  end 
of  the  world.  She  was  a  wild  one,  all  right. 

"She  was  so  wild  that  Drew,  after  they  got 
married,  took  her  over  on  the  far  side  of  the  range 
and  built  that  old  house  that's  rottin'  there  now. 


Joan  179 

Bard,  he  left  the  range  and  wasn't  never  seen  again, 
far  as  I  know.  " 

It  was  clear  to  Anthony,  bitterly  clear.  His 
father  had  had  a  grim  scene  in  parting  with  Drew 
and  had  placed  the  continent  between  them.  And 
in  the  Eastern  states  he  had  met  that  black-eyed 
girl,  his  mother,  and  loved  her  because  she  was  so 
much  like  the  wild  daughter  of  Piotto.  The  girl 
Joan  in  dying  had  probably  extracted  from  Drew 
a  promise  that  he  would  kill  Bard,  and  that  promise 
he  had  lived  to  fulfil. 

' '  So  Joan  died  ? "  he  queried. 

"Yep,  and  was  buried  under  them  two  trees  in 
front  of  the  house.  I  don't  think  she  lived  long 
after  they  was  married,  but  about  that  nobody 
knows.  They  was  clear  off  by  themselves  and 
there  isn't  any  one  can  tell  about  their  life  after 
they  was  married.  All  we  know  is  that  Drew 
didn't  get  over  her  dyin'.  He  ain't  over  it  yet, 
and  goes  out  to  the  old  place  every  month  or  so  to 
potter  around  the  grave  and  keep  the  grass  and 
the  weeds  off  of  it  and  clean  the  head-stone. " 

The  candle  guttered  wildly  on  the  floor.  It  had 
burnt  almost  to  the  wood  and  now  the  remnant 
of  the  wick  stood  in  a  little  sprawling  pool  of  grease 
white  at  the  outer  edges. 

Bard  yawned,  and  patted  idly  the  blanket  where 


i8o  Trailin' 

it  touched  on  the  shape  of  the  revolver  beneath. 
In  another  moment  that  candle  would  gutter  out 
and  they  would  be  left  in  darkness. 

He  said:  "That's  the  best  yarn  I've  heard  in  a 
good  many  days;  it's  enough  to  make  any  one 
sleepy — so  here  goes. " 

And  he  turned  deliberately  on  his  side. 

Nash,  his  eyes  staring  with  incredulity,  sat  up 
slowly  among  his  blankets  and  his  hand  stole  up 
toward  the  noose  of  the  lariat.  A  light  snore 
reached  him,  hardly  a  snore  so  much  as  the  heavy 
intake  of  breath  of  a  very  weary,  sleeping  man ;  yet 
the  hand  of  Nash  froze  on  the  lariat. 

"By  God,"  he  whispered  faintly  to  himself, 
"he  ain't  asleep!" 

And  the  candle  flared  wildly,  leaped  and  shook 
out. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   SWIMMING   OF   THE    SAVERACK 

OVER  the  face  of  Nash  the  darkness  passed  like 
a  cold  hand  and  a  colder  sense  of  failure  touched 
his  heart ;  but  men  who  have  ridden  the  range  have 
one  great  power  surpassing  all  others — the  power 
of  patience.  As  soundlessly  as  he  had  pushed 
himself  up  the  moment  before,  he  now  slipped 
down  in  the  blankets  and  resigned  himself  to  sleep. 

He  knew  that  he  would  wake  at  the  first  hint  of 
grey  light  and  trusted  that  after  the  long  ride  of 
the  day  before  his  companion  would  still  be  fast 
asleep.  That  half  light  would  be  enough  for  his 
work ;  but  when  he  roused  while  the  room  was  still 
scarcely  more  visible  than  if  it  were  filled  with  a 
grey  fog,  he  found  Bard  already  up  and  pulling 
on  his  boots. 

"How'd  you  sleep?"  he  growled,  following  the 
example  of  the  tenderfoot. 

* '  Not  very  well, ' '  said  the  other  cheerily.  ' '  You 
see,  that  story  of  yours  was  so  vivid  in  my  mind 

181 


Trailin' 


that  I  stayed  awake  about  all  night,  I  guess, 
thinking  it  over.  " 

"I  knew  it,  "  murmured  Nash  to  himself.  "He 
was  awake  all  the  time.  And  still  -  '  ' 

If  that  thrown  noose  of  the  lariat  had  settled 
over  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  sham  sleeper 
it  would  have  made  no  difference  whether  he 
waked  or  slept  —  in  the  end  he  would  have  sat 
before  William  Drew  tied  hand  and  foot.  If  that 
noose  had  not  settled?  The  picture  of  the  little 
piece  of  paper  fluttering  to  the  floor  came  back  with 
a  strange  vividness  to  the  mind  of  Nash,  and  he 
had  to  shrug  his  shoulders  to  shake  the  thought 
away. 

They  were  in  the  saddle  a  very  few  moments 
after  they  awoke  and  started  out,  breakfastless. 
The  rain  long  ago  had  ceased,  and  there  was  only 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  brown  hills  around  them 
—  silence,  and  a  faint,  crinkling  sound  as  if  the 
thirsty  soil  still  drank.  It  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of 
rain,  they  could  see,  for  whenever  they  passed  a 
bare  spot  where  no  grass  grew,  it  was  crossed  by  a 
thick  tracery  of  the  rivulets  which  had  washed 
down  the  slopes  during  the  night. 

Soon  they  reached  a  little  creek  whose  current, 
barely  knee  deep,  foamed  up  around  the  shoulders 
of  the  horses  and  set  them  staggering. 


The  Swimming  of  the  Saverack  183 

"The  Saverack  will  be  hell,"  said  Nash,  "and 
we'd  better  cut  straight  for  the  ford. " 

"How  long  will  it  take?" 

"Add  about  three  hours  to  the  trip. " 

"Can't  do  it;  remember  that  little  date  back  in 
Eldara  to-night. " 

1 '  Then  look  for  yourself  and  make  up  your  mind 
for  yourself,"  said  Nash  drily,  for  they  topped  a 
hill,  and  below  them  saw  a  mighty  yellow  flood 
pouring  down  the  valley.  It  went  leaping  and 
shouting  as  if  it  rejoiced  in  some  destruction  it  had 
worked  and  was  still  working,  and  the  muddy 
torrent  was  threaded  with  many  a  ridge  of  white 
and  swirling  with  bubbles. 

' '  The  Saverack, ' '  said  Nash.  ' '  Now  what  d'you 
think  about  fording  it?" 

"If  we  can't  ford  it,  we  can  swim  it, "  declared 
Bard.  "Look  at  that  tree-trunk.  If  that  will 
float  I  will  float,  and  if  I  can  float  I  can  swim, 
and  if  I  can  swim  I'll  reach  the  other  bank  of  that 
little  creek.  Won't  we,  boy?" 

And  he  slapped  the  proud  neck  of  the  mus 
tang. 

"Swim  it?"  said  Nash  incredulously.  "Does 
that  date  mean  as  much  as  that  to  you?" 

"It  isn't  the  date;  it's  the  promise  I  gave," 
answered  the  other,  watching  the  current  with  a 


Trailin' 


cool  eye,  "besides,  when  I  was  a  youngster  I  used 
to  do  things  like  this  for  the  sport  of  it.  " 

They  rode  down  to  the  edge  of  the  stream. 

"How  about  it,  Nash,  will  you  take  the  chance 
with  me?" 

And  the  other,  looking  down  :  *  '  Try  the  current, 
I'll  stay  here  on  the  shore  and  if  it  gets  too  strong 
for  you  I'll  throw  out  a  rope,  eh?  But  if  you  can 
make  it,  I'll  follow  suit.  " 

The  other  cast  a  somewhat  wistful  eye  of  doubt 
upon  the  cowpuncher. 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  ford?"  he  asked. 

"About  eight  miles,"  answered  Nash,  doubling 
the  distance  on  the  spot. 

"Eight  miles?"  repeated  the  other  ruefully. 
'  '  Too  far.  Then  here  goes,  Nash.  '  ' 

Still  never  turning  his  back  on  the  cowpuncher, 
who  was  now  uncoiling  his  lariat  and  preparing 
it  for  a  cast,  Bard  edged  the  piebald  into  the 
current.  He  felt  the  mustang  stagger  as  the  water 
came  knee-deep,  and  he  checked  the  horse,  casting 
his  eye  from  shore  to  shore  and  summing  up  the 
chances. 

If  it  had  been  simply  water  against  which  he 
had  to  contend,  he  would  not  have  hesitated,  but 
here  and  there  along  the  course  sharp  pointed 
rocks  and  broad-backed  boulders  loomed,  and 


The  Swimming  of  the  Saverack  185 

now  and  then,  with  a  mighty  splashing  and  crash 
ing  one  of  these  was  overbalanced  by  the  force  of 
the  current  and  rolled  another  step  toward  the 
far-off  sea. 

That  rush  of  water  would  carry  him  far  down 
stream  and  the  chances  were  hardly  more  than 
even  that  he  would  not  strike  against  one  of  these 
murderous  obstructions  about  which  the  current 
foamed. 

An  impulse  made  him  turn  and  wave  a  hand  to 
Nash. 

He  shouted:  "Give  me  luck?" 

"Luck?"  roared  the  cowboy,  and  his  voice 
came  as  if  faint  with  distance  over  the  thunder  of 
the  stream. 

He  touched  the  piebald  with  the  spurs,  and  the 
gallant  little  horse  floundered  forward,  lost  footing 
and  struck  into  water  beyond  its  depth.  At  the 
same  instant  Bard  swung  clear  of  the  saddle  and 
let  his  body  trail  out  behind,  holding  with  his 
left  hand  to  the  tail  of  the  struggling  horse  and 
kicking  to  aid  the  progress. 

Immersed  to  the  chin,  and  sometimes  covered  by 
a  more  violent  wave,  the  sound  of  the  river  grew 
at  once  strangely  dim,  but  he  felt  the  force  of  the 
current  tugging  at  him  like  a  thousand  invisible 
hands.  He  began  to  wish  that  he  had  taken  off 


i86  Trailin' 

his  boots  before  entering,  for  they  weighted  his 
feet  so  that  it  made  him  leg- weary  to  kick.  Never 
theless  he  trusted  in  the  brave  heart  of  the  mus 
tang.  There  was  no  wavering  in  the  wild  horse. 
Only  his  head  showed  over  the  water,  but  the  ears 
were  pricking  straight  and  high,  and  it  never  once 
swerved  back  toward  the  nearer  shore. 

Their  progress  at  first  was  good,  but  as  they 
neared  the  central  portion  of  the  water  they  were 
swept  many  yards  downstream  for  one  that  they 
made  in  a  transverse  direction.  Twice  they  missed 
projecting  rocks  by  the  narrowest  margin,  and 
then  something  like  an  exceedingly  thin  and  ex 
ceedingly  strong  arm  caught  Anthony  around  the 
shoulders.  It  tugged  back,  stopped  all  their  for 
ward  progress,  and  let  them  sweep  rapidly  down 
the  stream  and  back  toward  the  shore. 

Turning  his  head  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Nash 
sitting  calmly  in  his  saddle,  holding  the  rope  in 
both  hands — and  laughing.  The  next  instant  he 
saw  no  more,  for  the  current  placed  a  taller  rock 
between  him  and  the  bank.  On  that  rock  the  line 
of  the  lariat  caught,  hooking  the  swimmers  sharply 
in  toward  the  bank.  He  would  have  cut  the  rope, 
but  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  get  out  a 
knife  and  open  a  blade  with  his  teeth,  still  clinging 
to  the  tail  of  the  swimming  horse  with  one  hand. 


The  Swimming  of  the  Saverack  187 

He  reached  down  through  the  water,  pulled  out 
the  colt,  and  with  an  effort  swung  himself  about. 
Close  at  hand  he  could  not  reach  the  rope,  and 
therefore  he  fired  not  directly  at  the  rope  itself, 
but  at  the  edge  of  the  rock  around  which  the  lariat 
bent  at  a  sharp  angle.  The  splash  of  that  bullet 
from  the  strong  face  of  the  rock  sliced  the  rope  like 
a  knife.  It  snapped  free,  and  the  brave  little  mus 
tang  straightened  out  again  for  the  far  shore. 

An  instant  more  Bard  swam  with  the  revolver 
poised  above  the  water,  but  he  caught  no  glimpse 
of  Nash;  so  he  restored  it  with  some  difficulty  to 
the  holster,  and  gave  all  his  attention  and  strength 
to  helping  the  horse  through  the  water,  swimming 
with  one  hand  and  kicking  vigorously  with  his 
feet. 

Perhaps  they  would  not  have  made  it,  for  now 
through  exhaustion  the  ears  of  the  mustang  were 
drooping  back.  He  shouted,  and  at  the  faint 
sound  of  his  cheer  the  piebald  pricked  a  single 
weary  ear.  He  shouted  again,  and  this  time  not 
for  encouragement,  but  from  exultation;  a  swerv 
ing  current  had  caught  them  and  was  bearing 
them  swiftly  toward  the  desired  bank. 

It  failed  them  when  they  were  almost  touching 
j  bottom  and  swung  sharply  out  toward  the  centre 
j  again,  but  the  mustang,  as  though  it  realized  that 


i88  Trailin' 

this  was  the  last  chance,  fought  furiously.  An 
thony  gave  the  rest  of  his  strength,  and  they 
edged  through,  inch  by  inch,  and  horse  and  man 
staggered  up  the  bank  and  stood  trembling  with 
fatigue. 

Glancing  back,  he  saw  Nash  in  the  act  of  throw 
ing  his  lariat  to  the  ground,  wild  with  anger,  and 
before  he  could  understand  the  meaning  of  this 
burst  of  temper  over  a  mere  spoiled  lariat,  the  gun 
whipped  from  the  side  of  the  cowboy,  exploded, 
and  the  little  piebald,  with  ears  pricked  sharply 
forward  as  though  in  vague  curiosity,  crumpled  to 
the  ground.  The  suddenness  of  it  took  all  power  of 
action  from  Bard  for  the  instant.  He  stood  staring 
stupidly  down  at  the  dying  horse  and  then  whirled, 
gun  in  hand,  frantic  with  anger  and  grief. 

Nash  was  galloping  furiously  up  the  far  bank 
of  the  Saverack,  already  safely  out  of  range,  and 
speeding  toward  the  ford. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DREW    SMILES 

WHEN  the  cattleman  felt  the  rope  snap  back  to 
his  hand  he  could  not  realize  at  first  just  what  had 
happened.  The  crack  of  the  gun  had  been  no 
louder  than  the  snapping  of  a  twig  in  that  storming 
of  the  river,  and  the  only  explanation  he  could 
find  was  that  the  rope  had  struck  some  superla 
tively  sharp  edge  of  the  rock  and  been  sawed  in 
two.  But  examining  the  cut  end  he  found  it 
severed  as  cleanly  as  if  a  knife  had  slashed  across 
it,  and  then  it  was  he  knew  and  threw  the  lariat 
to  the  ground. 

When  he  saw  Bard  scramble  up  the  opposite 
bank  he  knew  that  his  game  was  lost  and  all  the 
tables  reversed,  for  the  Easterner  was  a  full  two 
hours  closer  to  the  home  of  Drew  than  he  was,  with 
the  necessary  detour  up  to  the  ford.  The  East 
erner  might  be  delayed  by  the  unknown  country  for 
a  time,  but  not  very  long.  He  was  sure  to  meet 
someone  who  would  point  the  way.  It  was  then 

189 


190  Trailin' 

that  Nash  drew  his  gun  and  shot  down  the  piebald 
mustang. 

The  next  instant  he  was  racing  straight  up  the 
river  toward  the  ford.  The  roan  was  not  spared 
this  day,  for  there  were  many  chances  that  Bard 
might  secure  a  fresh  mount  to  speed  him  on  the 
way  to  the  Drew  ranch,  and  now  it  was  all  im 
portant  that  the  big  grey  man  be  warned;  for  there 
was  a  danger  in  that  meeting,  as  Nash  was  be 
ginning  to  feel. 

By  noon  he  reached  the  house  and  went  straight 
to  the  owner,  a  desperate  figure,  spattered  with 
mud  to  the  eyes,  a  three  days'  growth  of  whiskers 
blackening  his  face,  and  that  face  gaunt  with  the 
long,  hard  riding.  He  found  the  imperturbable 
Drew  deep  in  a  book  in  his  office.  While  he  was 
drawing  breath,  the  rancher  examined  him  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"I  thought  this  would  be  the  end  of  it,"  he 
announced. 

"The  devil  and  all  hell  plays  on  the  side  of 
Bard, "  answered  the  foreman.  ' '  I  had  him  safe — 
almost  tied  hand  and  foot.  He  got  away. " 

"Got  away?" 

"Shot  the  rope  in  two. " 

The  other  placed  a  book-mark,  closed  th< 
volume,  and  looked  up  with  the  utmost  serenity. 


Drew  Smiles  191 

"Try  again,"  he  said  quietly.  "Take  half  a 
dozen  men  with  you,  surprise  him  in  the  night 

"Surprise  a  wolf,"  growled  Nash.  "It's  just 
the  same. " 

The  shaggy  eyebrows  stirred. 

"How  far  is  he  away?" 

"Two  or  three  miles — maybe  half  a  dozen — I 
don't  know.  Hell  be  here  before  night. " 

The  big  man  changed  colour  and  gripped  the 
edge  of  the  desk.  Nash  had  never  dreamed  that 
it  would  be  possible  to  so  stir  him. 

"Coming  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Nash — you  infernal  fool!  Did  you  let  him 
know  where  you  were  taking  him?" 

"No.    He  was  already  on  the  way  here. " 

Once  more  Drew  winced.  He  rose  now  and 
strode  across  the  room  and  back;  from  the  wall 
the  heavy  echo  of  his  footfall  came  sharply  back. 
And  he  paused  in  front  of  Nash,  looming  above  his 
foreman  like  some  primitive  monster,  or  as  the 
Grecian  heroes  loomed  above  the  rank  and  file  at 
the  siege  of  Troy.  He  was  like  a  relic  of  some 
earlier  period  when  bigger  men  were  needed  for  a 
greater  physical  labour. 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"I  don't  know.     Says  he  wants  to  ask  for  the 


i92  Trailin' 

right  of  hunting  on  your  old  place  on  the  other 
side  of  the  range.  Which  I'd  tell  a  man  it's  jest  a 
lie.  He  knows  he  can  hunt  there  if  he  wants  to. " 

"Does  he  know  me?" 

"Just  your  name." 

"Did  he  ask  many  questions  about  me?" 

"Wanted  to  know  what  you  looked  like." 

"And  you  told  him?" 

"A  lot  of  things.  Said  you  were  big  and  grey. 
And  I  told  him  that  story  about  you  and  John 
Bard." 

Drew  slumped  into  a  chair  and  ground  the 
knuckles  of  his  right  hand  across  his  forehead. 
The  white  marks  remained  as  he  looked  up  again. 

"What  was  that?" 

"Why,  how  you  happened  to  marry  Joan  Piotto 
and  how  Bard  left  the  country. " 

"That  was  all?" 

"Is  there  any  more,  sir?" 

The  other  stared  into  the  distance,  overlookinj 
the  question. 

"Tell  me  what  you've  found  out  about  him." 

"I  been  after  him  these  three  days.     Log* 
tipped  him  wrong,  and  he  started  the  south  trail 
for  Eldara.     I  got  on  his  trail  three  times  ai 
couldn't  catch  him  till  we  hit  Eldara. " 

"I  thought  your  roan  was  the  most  durabl 


Drew  Smiles  193 

horse  on  the  range,  Steve.     You've  often  told  me 
so." 

"He  is." 

"But  you  couldn't  catch— Bard?" 

"He  was  on  a  faster  horse  than  mine — for  a 
while. " 

"Well?    Isn't  he  now?' 

"I  killed  the  horse." 

' '  You  showed  your  hand,  then  ?  He  knows  you 
were  sent  after  him  ? ' ' 

"No,  he  thinks  it's  because  of  a  woman. " 

"Is  he  tangling  himself  up  with  some  girl?" 
frowned  the  rancher. 

"He's  cutting  in  on  me  with  Sally  Fortune — 
damn  his  heart!" 

And  Nash  paled  visibly,  even  through  whiskers 
and  mud.  The  other  almost  smiled. 

"So  soon,  Nash?" 

"With  hosses  and  women,  he  don't  lose  no  time." 

"What's  he  done?" 

"The  first  trace  I  caught  of  him  was  at  a  shack 
of  an  old  ranchhouse  where  he'd  traded  his  lame 
hoss  in.  They  gave  him  the  wildest  mustang  they 
had — a  hoss  that  was  saddle-shy  and  that  hadn't 
never  been  ridden.  He  busted  that  hoss  in — a 
little  piebald  mustang,  tougher  'n  iron — and  that 
was  why  I  didn't  catch  him  till  we  hit  Eldara.  " 


194  Trailin' 

The  smile  was  growing  more  palpable  on  the 
face  of  Drew,  and  he  nodded  for  the  story  to 
continue. 

"Then  I  come  to  a  house  which  was  all  busted 
up  because  Bard  had  come  along  and  flirted  with 
the  girl,  and  she's  got  too  proud  for  the  feller  she 
was  engaged  to — begun  thinkin'  of  millionaires 
right  away,  I  s'pose. 

"Next  I  tracked  him  to  Flanders 's  saloon, 
where  he'd  showed  up  Sandy  Ferguson  the  day 
before  and  licked  him  bad.  I  seen  Ferguson.  It 
was  sure  some  lickin'. " 

"Ferguson?  The  gun-fighter?  The  two-gun 
man?" 

"Him." 

"Ah-h-h!"  drawled  the  big  man. 

The  colour  was  back  in  his  face.  He  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  the  recountal  hugely. 

"Then  I  hit  Eldara  and  found  all  the  lights  out." 

"Because  of  Bard?" 

"H-m!  He'd  had  a  run-in  with  Butch  Conklin, 
and  Butch  threatened  to  come  back  with  all  his 
gang  and  wipe  Eldara  off  the  map.  He  stuck 
around  and  while  he  was  waitin'  for  Butch  and  his 
gang,  he  started  flirtin'  with  Sally — Fortune." 

The  name  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat  and  he 
had  to  bring  it  out  with  a  grimace. 


Drew  Smiles  195 

"So  now  you  want  his  blood,  Nash?" 

"I'll  have  it,"  said  the  cowpuncher  quietly, 
"I've  got  gambler's  luck.  In  the  end  I'm  sure  to 
win." 

"You're  not  going  to  win  here,  Nash." 

' '  No  ? "  queried  the  younger  man,  with  a  danger 
ous  intonation. 

"No.  I  know  the  blood  behind  that  chap. 
You  won't  win  here.  Blood  will  out. " 

He  smote  his  great  fist  on  the  desk-top  and  his 
laugh  was  a  thunder  which  reverberated  through 
the  room. 

"Blood  will  out?  The  blood  of  John  Bard?" 
asked  Nash. 

Drew  started. 

"Who  said  John  Bard?" 

He  grew  grey  again,  the  flush  dying  swiftly. 
He  started  to  his  feet  and  repeated  in  a  great  voice, 
sweeping  the  room  with  a  wild  glance:  "Who  said 
John  Bard?" 

"I  thought  maybe  this  was  his  son,"  answered 
Nash. 

"You're  a  fool!  Does  he  look  like  John  Bard? 
No,  there's  only  one  person  in  the  world  he  looks 
like." 

He  strode  again  up  and  down  the  room,  repeating 
in  a  deep  monotone:  "John  Bard!" 


196  Trailin' 

Coming  to  a  sharp  halt  he  said:  "I  don't  want 
the  rest  of  your  story.  The  point  is  that  the  boy 
will  be  here  within — an  hour — two  hours.  We've 
got  work  to  do  before  that  time.  " 

"Listen  to  me,"  answered  the  foreman,  "don't 
let  him  get  inside  this  house.  I'd  rather  take  part 
of  hell  into  a  house  of  mine.  Besides,  if  he  sees 
me " 

"He's  coming  here,  but  he's  not  going  to  see 
either  of  us — my  mind  is  made  up — neither  of  us 
until  I  have  him  helpless. " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    COMEDY    SETTING 

"DEAD,  you  mean,"  broke  in  Nash,  "because 
otherwise  he'll  never  be  helpless. " 

"I  tell  you,  Nash,"  said  the  other  solemnly, 
"I  can  make  him  helpless  with  one  minute  of  talk. 
My  problem  is  to  keep  that  wild  devil  harmless 
while  he  listens  to  me  talk.  Another  thing — if  he 
ever  sees  me,  nothing  but  death  will  stop  him  from 
coming  at  my  throat.  " 

"Speakin'  personal,"  said  the  other  coldly,  "I 
never  take  no  chances  on  fellers  that  might  come 
at  my  throat." 

"I  know;  you're  for  the  quick  draw  and  the 
quick  finish.  But  I'd  rather  die  myself  than  have 
a  hair  of  his  head  hurt.  I  mean  that ! " 

Nash,  his  thoughts  spinning,  stood  staring 
blankly. 

"I  give  up  tryin'  to  figure  it  out;  but  if  he's 
comin'  here  and  you  want  to  keep  him  safe  I'd 
better  take  a  fresh  hoss  and  get  twenty  miles  away 
before  night." 

197 


Trailin' 


"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  you'll  stay  here 
with  me.  " 

"And  face  him  without  a  gun?"  asked  the  other 
incredulously. 

'  '  Leave  gun  talk  out  of  this.  I  think  one  of  the 
boys  looks  a  little  like  me.  Lawlor  —  isn't  that  his 
name?" 

"Him?  Yes;  a  little  bit  like  you  —  but  he's  got 
his  thickness  through  the  stomach  and  not  through 
the  chest." 

"Never  mind.  He's  big,  and  he's  grey.  Send 
for  him,  and  get  the  rest  of  the  boys  in  here. 
They're  around  now  for  noon.  Get  every  one. 
Understand?  And  make  it  fast.  " 

In  ten  minutes  they  came  to  the  office  in  a  troop 
—  rough  men,  smooth  men,  little  and  big,  fat  and 
thin,  but  good  cattlemen,  every  one. 

"Boys,"  said  Drew,  "a  tenderfoot  is  coming  to 
the  ranch  to-day.  I'm  going  to  play  a  few  jokes  on 
him.  First  of  all,  I  want  you  to  know  that  until  the 
stranger  leaves  the  house,  Lawlor  is  going  to  take 
my  place.  He  is  going  to  be  Drew.  Understand  ?  '  ' 

"Lawlor?"  broke  out  several  of  them,  and 
turned  in  surprise  to  a  big,  cheerful  man  —  grey, 
plump,  with  monstrous  white  whiskers. 

"Because  he  looks  a  bit  like  me.  First,  you'll 
have  to  crop  those  whiskers,  Lawlor.  '  ' 


The  Comedy  Setting  199 

He  clutched  at  the  threatened  whiskers  with 
both  hands. 

"Crop  'em?  Chief,  you  ain't  maybe  runnin' 
me  a  bit?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Drew,  smiling  faintly.  "I'll 
make  it  worth  your  while. " 

* '  It  took  me  thirty  years  to  raise  them  whiskers," 
said  the  cattleman,  stern  with  rebuke.  "D'you 
think  I  could  be  hired  to  give  'em  up?  It's  like 
givin'  up  some  of  myself. " 

"Let  them  go,  then.  You  can  play  the  part, 
whiskers  and  all.  The  rest  of  you  remember  that 
Lawlor  is  the  boss. " 

"And  brand  that  deep,"  growled  Lawlor,  look 
ing  about  with  a  frown. 

He  had  already  stepped  into  his  part ;  the  others 
laughed  loudly. 

"Steady  there!"  called  Drew.  "Lawlor  starts 
as  boss  right  now.  Cut  out  the  laughing.  I'll  tell 
the  rest  of  you  what  you're  to  do  later  on.  In  the 
meantime  just  step  out  and  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
Lawlor  on  his  part.  We  haven't  much  time  to 
get  ready.  But  remember — if  one  of  you  grins 
when  Lawlor  gives  an  order — I'm  done  with  that 
man— that's  all. " 

They  filed  out  of  the  room,  looking  serious,  and 
Drew  concentrated  on  Lawlor. 


200  Trailin' 

"This  sounds  like  a  joke,"  he  began,  "but 
there's  something  serious  about  it.  If  you  carry 
it  through  safely,  there's  a  hundred  in  it  for  you. 
If  you  fall  down,  why,  you  fall  out  of  an  easy  place 
on  this  ranch." 

The  big  cattleman  wiped  a  growing  perspiration 
from  his  forehead  and  considered  his  boss  with 
plaintive  eyes. 

"This  tenderfoot  who's  coming  is  green  to  the 
range,  but  he's  a  hard  man;  a  fine  horseman,  a  sure 
shot,  and  a  natural  fighter.  More  than  that,  he's 
coming  here  looking  for  trouble;  and  he'll  expect 
to  get  the  trouble  from  you. " 

Lawlor  brushed  his  moustache  anxiously. 

"Let  someone  else  take  the  job — that's  all.  A 
hundred  ain't  to  be  picked  up  every  week,  but  I'll 
do  without  it.  In  my  day  I've  done  my  share  of 
brawlin'  around,  but  I'm  too  stiff  in  the  joints  to 
make  a  fast  draw  and  getaway  now.  Let  Nash 
take  this  job.  He's  gun-fighter  enough  to  handle 
this  bad-man  for  you. " 

"No,"  said  Drew,  "not  even  Nash  can  handle 
this  one." 

"Then" — with  a  mighty  and  explosive  em 
phasis — "there  ain't  no  possible  use  of  me  lingering 
around  the  job.  S'-long. " 

"Wait.    This  young  chap  isn't  going  to  murder 


The  Comedy  Setting          201 

you.  I'll  tell  you  this  much.  The  man  he  wants  is 
I ;  but  he  knows  my  face,  not  my  name.  He's  been 
on  the  trail  of  that  face  for  some  time,  and  now 
he's  tracking  it  to  the  right  house;  but  when  he 
sees  you  and  hears  you  called  Drew,  he'll  be  thrown 
off  again. " 

The  other  nodded  gloomily. 

"  I'm  by  way  of  a  lightning  rod.  This  tenderfoot 
with  the  hard  hand,  he  strikes  and  I  sort  of  conduct 
the  shock  away  from  anything  that'll  burn,  eh?" 

Drew  overlooked  the  comment. 

"There  are  certain  things  about  me  you  will 
have  to  know."  And  he  explained  carefully  the 
story  which  Nash  had  told  to  Bard. 

"This  Bard, "  asked  the  cautious  Lawlor,  "is  he 
any  relation  of  old  John  Bard?" 

"Even  if  he  were,  it  wouldn't  make  your  posi 
tion  dangerous.  The  man  he  wants  is  I .  He  knows 
my  face — not  my  name.  Until  he  sees  me  he'll 
be  perfectly  reasonable,  unless  he's  crossed.  You 
must  seem  frank  and  above  board.  If  you  tell 
more  lies  than  are  necessary  he  may  get  suspicious, 
and  if  he  grows  suspicious  the  game  is  up  and  will 
have  to  be  finished  with  a  gun  play.  Remember 
that.  He'll  want  to  know  about  Nash.  Tell  him 
that  Nash  is  a  bad  one  and  that  you've  fixed  him ; 
he  mustn't  expect  to  find  Nash  here. " 


202  Trailin' 

Lawlor  rubbed  his  hands,  like  one  coming  from 
the  cold  outdoors  to  a  warm  fire. 

"I'm  beginning  to  see  light.  Lemme  at  this 
Bard.  I'm  going  to  get  enough  fun  out  of  this  to 
keep  me  laughin'  the  rest  of  my  life. " 

"Good;  but  keep  that  laugh  up  your  sleeve.  If 
he  asks  questions  you'll  have  some  solemn  things 
to  say. " 

"Chief,  when  the  time  comes,  there's  going  to 
be  about  a  gallon  of  tears  in  my  eyes. " 

So  Drew  left  him  to  complete  the  other  arrange 
ments.  If  Bard  reached  the  house  he  must  be 
requested  to  stay,  and  if  he  stayed  he  must  be  fed 
and  entertained.  The  difficulty  in  the  way  of  this 
was  that  the  servants  in  the  big  ranchhouse  were 
two  Chinese  boys.  They  could  never  be  trusted 
to  help  in  the  deception,  so  Drew  summoned  two 
of  his  men,  "Shorty"  Kilrain  and  "Calamity" 
Ben. 

Calamity  had  no  other  name  than  Ben,  as  far 
as  any  one  on  the  range  had  ever  been  able  to 
learn.  His  nickname  was  derived  from  the  most 
dolorous  face  between  Eldara  and  Twin  Rivers. 
Two  pale-blue  eyes,  set  close  together,  stared  out 
with  an  endless  and  wistful  pathos;  a  long  nose 
dropped  below  them,  and  his  mouth  curled  down 
at  the  sides.  He  was  hopelessly  round-shouldered 


The  Comedy  Setting          203 

from  much  and  careless  riding,  and  in  attempting 
to  straighten  he  only  succeeded  in  throwing  back 
his  head,  so  that  his  lean  neck  generally  was  in  a 
V-shape  with  the  Adam's  apple  as  the  apex  of  the 
wedge. 

Shorty  Kilrain  received  his  early  education  at 
sea  and  learned  there  a  general  handiness  which 
stood  him  in  stead  when  he  came  to  the  mountain- 
desert.  There  was  nothing  which  Shorty  could 
not  do  with  his  hands,  from  making  a  knot  to 
throwing  a  knife,  and  he  was  equally  ready  to 
oblige  with  either  accomplishment.  Drew  pro 
posed  that  he  take  charge  of  the  kitchen  with 
Calamity  Ben  as  an  assistant.  Shorty  glowered 
on  the  rancher. 

' '  Me ! "  he  said.  * '  Me  go  into  the  galley  to  wait 
on  a  blasted  tenderfoot  ? ' ' 

"After  he  leaves  you'll  have  a  month  off  with 
full  pay  and  some  over,  Shorty. ' ' 

"Don't  want  the  month  off. " 

Drew  considered  him  thoughtfully,  following 
the  precept  of  Walpole  that  every  man  has  his 
price. 

"What  do  you  want,  Shorty?" 

The  ex-sailor  scratched  his  head  and  then  rolled 
his  eyes  up  with  a  dawning  smile,  as  one  who  sees 
a  vision  of  ultimate  bliss. 


204  Trailin' 

"Let  one  of  the  other  boys  catch  my  hoss  out 
of  the  corral  every  morning  and  saddle  him  for  me 
for  a  month." 

' '  It's  a  bargain.    What '11  you  do  with  that  time  ?' ' 

"Sit  on  the  fence  and  roll  a  cigarette  like  a 
blasted  gentleman  and  damn  the  eyes  of  the  feller 
that's  cat  chin'  my  hoss. " 

"And  me,"  said  Calamity  Ben,  "what  do  I 
get?" 

"You  get  orders,"  answered  Kilrain,  "from 
me." 

Calamity  regarded  him,  uncertain  whether  or 
not  to  fight  out  the  point,  but  apparently  decided 
that  the  effort  was  not  worth  while. 

"There  ain't  going  to  be  no  luck  come  out  of 
this, "  he  said  darkly.  ' '  Before  this  tenderfoot  gets 
out  of  the  house,  we're  all  going  to  wish  he  was  in 
hell." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
"SAM'L  HALL" 

BUT  with  the  stage  set  and  the  curtain  ready  to 
rise  on  the  farce,  the  audience  did  not  arrive  until 
the  shadow  of  the  evening  blotted  the  windows  of 
the  office  where  big  Lawlor  waited  impatiently, 
rehearsing  his  part;  but  when  the  lamp  had  been 
lighted,  as  though  that  were  a  signal  for  which  the 
tenderfoot  had  waited,  came  a  knock  at  the  door 
of  the  room,  and  then  it  was  jerked  open  and  the 
head  of  one  of  the  cowpunchers  was  inserted. 

"He's  coming!" 

The  head  disappeared ;  the  door  slammed.  Law 
lor  stretched  both  arms  wide,  shifted  his  belt, 
loosened  his  gun  in  the  holster  for  the  fiftieth  time, 
and  exhaled  a  long  breath.  Once  more  the  door 
jerked  open,  and  this  time  it  was  the  head  and 
sullen  face  of  Nash,  enlivened  now  by  a  peculiarly 
unpleasant  smile. 

"He's  here!" 

As  the  door  closed  the  grim  realization  came  to 

205 


206  Traiiin' 

Lawlor  that  he  could  not  face  the  tenderfoot — 
his  staring  eyes  and  his  pallor  would  betray  him 
even  if  the  jerking  of  his  hands  did  not.  He  swung 
about  in  the  comfortable  chair,  seized  a  book  and 
whisking  it  open  bowed  his  head  to  read.  All  that 
he  saw  was  a  dance  of  irregular  black  lines :  voices 
sounded  through  the  hall  outside. 

"Sure,  he'll  see  you, "  Calamity  Ben  was  saying. 
"And  if  you  want  to  put  up  for  the  night  there 
ain't  nobody  more  hospital  than  the  Chief.  Right 
in  here,  son. " 

The  door  yawned.  He  could  not  see,  for  his 
back  was  resolutely  toward  it  and  he  was  gripping 
the  cover  of  the  book  hard  to  steady  his  hands; 
but  he  felt  a  breath  of  colder  air  from  the  outer 
hall;  he  felt  above  all  a  new  presence  peering  in 
upon  him,  like  a  winter-starved  lynx  that  might 
flatten  its  round  face  against  the  window  and  p< 
in  at  the  lazy  warmth  and  comfort  of  the  hum; 
around  the  hearth  inside.  Some  such  feeling  senl 
a  chill  through  Lawlor's  blood. 

"Hello!"  called  Calamity  Ben. 

"Humph!"  grunted  Lawlor. 

"Got  a  visitor,  Mr.  Drew.  " 

"Bring  him  in. " 

And  Lawlor  cleared  his  throat. 

"All  right,  here  he  is.  " 


"Sam'lHall"  207 

The  door  closed,  and  Lawlor  snapped  the  book 
shut. 

"Drew!"  said  a  low  voice. 

The  cowpuncher  turned  in  his  chair.  He  had 
intended  to  rise,  but  at  the  sound  of  that  controlled 
menace  he  knew  that  his  legs  were  too  weak  to 
answer  that  purpose.  What  he  saw  was  a  slender 
fellow,  who  stood  with  his  head  somewhat  lowered 
while  his  eyes  peered  down  from  under  contracted 
brows,  as  though  the  light  were  hurting  them.  His 
feet  were  braced  apart  and  his  hands  dropped 
lightly  on  his  hips — the  very  picture  of  a  man  ready 
to  spring  into  action. 

Under  the  great  brush  of  his  moustache,  Lawlor 
set  his  teeth,  but  he  was  instantly  at  ease;  for  if  the 
sight  of  the  stranger  shook  him  to  the  very  centre, 
the  other  was  even  more  obviously  shocked  by  what 
he  saw.  The  hands  dropped  limp  from  his  hips 
and  dangled  idly  at  his  sides;  his  body  straight 
ened  almost  with  a  jerk,  as  though  he  had  been 
struck  violently,  and  now,  instead  of  that  search 
ing  look,  he  was  blinking  down  at  his  host.  Lawlor 
rose  and  extended  a  broad  hand  and  an  even 
broader  smile;  he  was  proud  of  the  strength  which 
had  suddenly  returned  to  his  legs. 

"H'ware  ye,  stranger?  Sure  glad  to  see 
you." 


208  Trailin' 

The  other  accepted  the  proffered  hand  auto 
matically,  like  one  moving  in  a  dream. 

''Are  you  Drew?" 

"Sure  am." 

"William  Drew?" 

He  still  held  the  hand  as  if  he  were  fearful  of  the 
vision  escaping  without  that  sensible  bondage. 

"William  Drew  is  right.  Sit  down.  Make 
yourself  to  home. " 

"Thanks!"  breathed  the  other  and  as  if  that 
breath  expelled  with  it  all  his  strength  he  slumped 
into  a  chair  and  sat  with  a  fascinated  eye  glued  to 
his  host. 

Lawlor  had  time  to  mark  now  the  signs  of  long 
and  severe  travelling  which  the  other  bore,  streaks 
of  mud  that  disfigured  him  from  heel  to  shoulder ; 
and  his  face  was  somewhat  drawn  like  a  man  who 
has  gone  to  work  fasting. 

"William  Drew!"  he  repeated,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Lawlor,  and  the  latter  formed  a  silent 
prayer  of  gratitude  that  he  was  not  William  Drew. 

"I'm  forgetting  myself, "  went  on  the  tenderfoot, 
with  a  ghost  of  a  smile.  "My  name  is  Bard — 
Anthony  Bard." 

His  glance  narrowed  again,  and  this  time  Lawlor, 
remembering  his  part,  pretended  to  start  with 
surprise. 


"Sam'l  Hall"  209 

"Bard?" 

' '  Yes.    Anthony  Bard. ' ' 

"Glad  to  know  you.  You  ain't  by  any  chance 
related  to  a  John  Bard?" 

"Why?" 

"Had  a  partner  once  by  that  name.  Good  old 
John  Bard!" 

He  shook  his  head,  as  though  overcome  by 
recollections. 

"I've  heard  something  about  you  and  your 
partner,  Mr.  Drew." 

"Yes?" 

"In  fact,  it  seems  to  be  a  rather  unusual  story. " 

"Well,  it  ain't  common.  John  Bard!  I'll  tell 
the  world  there  was  a  man. " 

"Yes,  he  was." 

"What's  that?" 

"He  must  have  been,"  answered  Anthony, 
"from  all  that  I've  heard  of  him.  I'm  interested 
in  what  I  scrape  together  about  him.  You  see,  he 
carries  the  same  name." 

"That's  nacheral.    How  long  since  you  ate?" 

"Last  night." 

"The  hell!    Starved?" 

"Rather." 

"It's  near  chow-time.    Will  you  eat  now  or  wait 

for  the  reg'lar  spread?" 
14 


210  Trailin' 

"I  think  I  can  wait,  thank  you." 
"A  little  drink  right  now  to  help  you  along,  eh  ? " 
He  strode  over  and  opened  the  door. 
"Hey!    Shorty!" 

For  answer  there  came  only  the  wail  of  an  old 
pirate  song. 

"Oh,  my  name's  Sam'l  Hall— Sam'l  Hall; 
My  name's  Sam'l  Hall— Sam'l  Hall. 
My  name  is  Sam'l  Hall, 
And  I  hate  you  one  an'  all, 
You're  a  gang  of  muckers  all — 
Damn  your  eyes!" 

"Listen!"  said  Lawlor,  turning  to  his  guest  with 
a  deprecating  wave  of  the  hand.  "A  cook  what 
sings!  Which  in  the  old  days  I  wouldn't  have  had 
a  bum  like  that  around  my  place,  but  there  ain't 
no  choosin'  now." 

The  voice  from  the  kitchen  rolled  out  louder : 

"I  killed  a  man,  they  said,  so  they  said; 
I  killed  a  man,  they  said,  so  they  said. 
I  killed  a  man  they  said, 
For  I  hit  'im  on  the  head, 
And  I  left  him  there  for  dead — 
Damn  your  eyes!" 

"Hey!  Shorty  Kilrain!"  bellowed  the  aggra 
vated  host. 

He  turned  to  Bard. 


"Sam'lHall"  211 

"What'd  you  do  with  a  bum  like  that  for  a 
cook?" 

"Pay  him  wages  and  keep  him  around  to  sing 
songs.  I  like  this  one.  Listen ! ' ' 

"They  put  me  in  the  quad — in  the  quad; 
They  put  me  in  the  quad — in  the  quad. 
They  put  me  in  the  quad, 
They  chained  me  to  a  rod, 
And  they  left  me  there,  by  God — 
Damn  your  eyes!" 

"Kilrain,  come  here  and  make  it  fast  or  I'll 
damn  your  eyes!" 

He  explained  to  Bard:  "Got  to  be  hard  with 
these  fellers  or  you  never  get  nowhere  with  'em. " 

"Yo  ho!"  answered  the  voice  of  the  singer,  and 
approached  booming : 

"The  parson  he  did  come,  he  did  come; 
The  parson  he  did  come — did  come. 
The  parson  he  did  come, 
He  looked  almighty  glum, 
He  talked  of  kingdom  come — 
Damn  your  eyes!" 

Shorty  loomed  in  the  doorway  and  caught  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  in  a  nautical  salute.  He  had 
one  bad  eye,  and  now  it  squinted  as  villainously  as 
if  he  were  the  real  Sarril  Hall. 


212  Trailin' 

' '  Righto  sir.    What '11  you  have,  mate  ? ' ' 

1 1  Don't  mate  me,  you  igner'nt  sweepin'  of  the 
South  Sea,  but  trot  up  some  red-eye — and  gallop. " 

The  ex-sailor  shifted  his  quid  so  that  it  stuck 
far  out  in  the  opposite  cheek  with  such  violence 
of  pressure  that  a  little  spot  of  white  appeared 
through  the  tan  of  the  skin.  He  regarded  Lawlor 
for  a  silent  moment  with  bodeful  eyes. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  lookin'  at?"  roared  the 
other.  ' '  On  your  way ! ' ' 

The  features  of  Kilrain  twitched  spasmodically. 

"Righto,  sir." 

Another  salute,  and  he  was  off,  his  voice  coming 
back  less  and  less  distinctly. 

"So  up  the  rope  I'll  go,  I  will  go; 
So  up  the  rope  I'll  go— I'll  go. 
So  up  the  rope  I'll  go 
With  the  crowd  all  down  below 
Yelling,  'Sam,  I  told  you  so!' 
Damn  their  eyes!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HAIR   LIKE   THE   SUNSHINE 

"WELL,"  grumbled  Lawlor,  settling  back  com 
fortably  into  his  chair,  "one  of  these  days  I'm 
goin'  to  clean  out  my  whole  gang  and  put  in  a  new 
one.  They  maybe  won't  be  any  better  but  they 
can't  be  any  wuss. " 

Nevertheless,  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least  down 
hearted,  but  apparently  had  some  difficulty  in 
restraining  his  broad  grin. 

The  voice  of  the  grim  cook  returned : 

"I'll  see  Nelly  in  the  crowd,  in  the  crowd; 
I'll  see  Nelly  in  the  crowd,  in  the  crowd; 
I'll  see  Nelly  in  the  crowd, 
And  I'll  holler  to  her  loud: 
'  Hey,  Nelly,  ain't  you  proud — 
Damn  your  eyes  ? " 

"I  ask  you,"  cried  Lawlor,  with  freshly  risen 
wrath,  "is  that  any  way  to  go  around  talkin'  about 
women?" 

213 


214  Trailin' 

''Not  talking.  He's  singing,"  answered  Bard. 
"Let  him  alone." 

The  thunder  of  their  burly  Ganymede's  singing 
rose  and  echoed  about  them. 

"And  this  shall  be  my  knell,  be  my  knell; 
And  this  shall  be  my  knell — my  knell. 
And  this  shall  be  my  knell : 
'Sam,  I  hope  you  go  to  hell, 
Sam,  I  hope  you  sizzle  well— 
Damn  your  eyes! '  " 

Shorty  Kilrain  appeared  in  the  doorway,  his 
mouth  wide  on  the  last,  long,  wailing  note. 

"Shorty,"  said  Lawlor,  with  a  sort  of  hopeless 
sadness,  "ain't  you  never  been  educated  to  sing  no 
better  songs  than  that?" 

"Why,  you  old,  grey-headed — "  began  Shorty, 
and  then  stopped  short  and  hitched  his  trousers 
violently. 

Lawlor  pushed  the  bottle  of  whisky  and  glass 
toward  Bard. 

"Help  yourself."  And  to  Kilrain,  who  was 
leaving  the  room:  "Come  back  here. " 

"Well?"  snarled  the  sailor,  half  turning  at  the 
door. 

"While  I'm  runnin'  this  here  ranch  you're  goin' 
to  have  manners,  see?" 


Hair  Like  the  Sunshine        215 

"If  manners  was  like  your  whiskers,"  said  the 
unabashed  Shorty,  "it'd  take  me  nigh  onto  thirty 
years  to  get  'em. " 

And  he  winked  at  Bard  for  sympathy. 

Lawlor  smashed  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"What  I  say  is,  are  you  running  this  ranch  or 
ami?" 

" Well?"  growled  Kilrain. 

"If  you  was  a  kid  you'd  have  your  mouth 
washed  out  with  soap. " 

The  eyes  of  Shorty  bulged. 

"It  ought  to  be  done  now,  but  there  ain't  no 
one  I'd  give  such  dirty  work  to.  What  you're 
going  to  do  is  stand  right  here  and  show  us  you 
know  how  to  sing  a  decent  song  in  a  decent  way. 
That  there  song  of  yours  didn't  leave  nothin' 
sacred  untouched,  from  parsons  and  jails  to 
women  and  the  gallows.  Stand  over  there  and 
sing." 

The  eyes  of  the  sailor  filmed  over  with  cold 
hate. 

"Was  I  hired  to  punch  cattle,"  he  said,  "or 
make  a  blasted,  roar  in'  fool  out  of  myself?" 

"You  was  hired,"  answered  Lawlor  softly,  as 
he  filled  his  glass  to  the  brim  with  the  old  rye 
whisky,  "to  be  a  cook,  and  you're  the  rottenest 
hash-slinger  that  ever  served  cold  dough  for  bis- 


2i6  Trailin' 

cults;  a  blasted,  roarin'  fool  you've  already  made 
out  of  yourself  by  singin'  that  song.  I  want 
another  one  to  get  the  sound  of  that  out  of  my 
ears.  Tune  up!" 

Thoughts  of  murder,  ill-concealed,  whitened  the 
face  of  the  sailor. 

"Some  day — "  he  began  hoarsely,  and  then 
stopped.  For  a  vision  came  to  him  of  blithe  morn 
ings  when  he  should  sit  on  the  top  of  the  corral 
fence  rolling  a  cigarette,  while  some  other  puncher 
went  into  the  herd  and  roped  and  saddled  his 
horse. 

"D'you  mean  this — Drew?"  he  asked,  with  an 
odd  emphasis. 

"D'you  think  I'm  talking  for  fun?" 

"What '11 1  sing? "  he  asked  in  a  voice  which  was 
reduced  to  a  faint  whisper  by  rage. 

"I  dunno,  "  mused  Lawlor,  "but  maybe  it  ought 
to  lie  between  'Alice,  Ben  Bolt,'  and  'Annie 
Laurie/  What  d'you  choose,  partner?" 

He  turned  to  Bard. 

11  'Alice,  Ben  Bolt,'  by  all  means.  I  don't  think 
he  could  manage  the  Scotch. " 

"Start!"  commanded  Lawlor. 

The  sailor  closed  his  eyes,  tilted  back  his 
head,  twisted  his  face  to  a  hideous  grimace,  and 
then  opening  his  shapeless  mouth  emitted  a 


Hair  Like  the  Sunshine        217 

tremendous  wail  which  took  shape  in  the  follow 
ing  words: 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt, 
Sweet  Alice,  with  hair  like  the  sunshine — " 

"Shut  up!"  roared  Lawlor. 

It  required  a  moment  for  Shorty  to  unkink  the 
congested  muscles  of  his  face. 

"What  the  hell's  the  matter  now?"  he  inquired. 

"Whoever  heard  of  'hair  like  the  sunshine'? 
There  ain't  no  such  thing  possible.  'Hair  so 
brown,'  that's  what  the  song  says.  Shorty,  we  got 
more  feelin'  for  our  ears  than  to  let  you  go  on 
singm'  an'  showin'  your  ignerance.  G'wan  back 
to  the  kitchen!" 

Kilrain  drew  a  long  breath,  regarded  Lawlor 
again  with  that  considerate,  expectant  eye,  and 
then  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  from  the  room. 
Back  to  Bard  came  fragments  of  tremendous 
cursing  of  an  epic  breadth  and  a  world-wide  in- 
clusiveness. 

"Got  to  do  things  like  this  once  in  a  while  to 
keep  'em  under  my  thumb,"  Lawlor  explained 
genially. 

With  all  his  might  Bard  was  struggling  to  re 
concile  this  big-handed  vulgarian  with  his  mental 
picture  of  the  man  who  could  write  for  an  epitaph : 


Trailin' 


"Here  sleeps  Joan,  the  wife  of  William  Drew. 
She  chose  this  place  for  rest.  "  But  the  two  ideas 
were  not  inclusive. 

He  said  aloud:  "Aren't  you  afraid  that  that 
black-eyed  fellow  will  run  a  knife  between  your 
ribs  one  of  these  dark  nights?" 

"Who?  My  ribs?"  exclaimed  Lawlor,  never 
theless  stirring  somewhat  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
"Nope,  they  know  that  I'm  William  Drew.  They 
may  be  hard,  but  they  know  I'm  harder.  " 

"Oh,"  drawled  the  other,  and  his  eyes  held 
with  uncomfortable  steadiness  on  the  rosy  face 
of  Lawlor.  '  '  I  understand.  '  ' 

To  cover  his  confusion  Lawlor  seized  his  glass. 

"Here's  to  you  —  drinkin'  deep.  " 

And  he  tossed  off  the  mighty  potion.  Bard  had 
poured  only  a  few  drops  into  his  glass;  he  had  too 
much  sympathy  for  his  empty  stomach  to  do  more. 
His  host  leaned  back,  coughing,  with  tears  of 
pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

'  '  Damn  me  !  "  he  breathed  reverently.  '  '  I  ain't 
touched  stuff  like  this  in  ten  years.  " 

"Is  this  a  new  stock?"  inquired  Bard,  appar 
ently  puzzled. 

"This?"  said  Lawlor,  recalling  his  position  with 
a  start.  "Sure  it  is;  brand  new.  Yep,  stuff  ain't 
been  in  more'n  five  days.  Smooth,  ain't  it?  Med- 


Hair  Like  the  Sunshine        219 

icine,  that's  what  I  call  it;  a  gentleman's  drink — 
goes  down  like  water. 

Observing  a  rather  quizzical  light  in  the  eyes  of 
Bard,  he  felt  that  he  had  probably  been  making  a 
few  missteps,  and  being  warmed  greatly  at  the 
heart  by  the  whisky,  he  launched  forth  in  a  new 
phase  of  the  conversation. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
''THE  CRITIQUE  OF  PURE  REASON" 

"SPEAKIN'  of  hard  cattlemen,  "  he  said,  "  I  could 
maybe  tell  you  a  few  things,  son. " 

' '  No  doubt  of  it, ' '  smiled  Anthony.  ' '  I  presume 
it  would  take  a  very  hard  man  to  handle  this 
crowd. " 

"Fairly  hard, "  nodded  the  redoubtable  Lawlor, 
"but  they  ain't  nothin'  to  the  men  that  used  to 
ride  the  range  in  the  old  days. " 

"No?" 

"Nope.  One  of  them  men — why,  he'd  eat  a 
dozen  like  Kilrain  and  think  nothin'  of  it. 
Them  was  the  sort  I  learned  to  ride  the  range 
with." 

"I've  heard  something  about  a  fight  which  you 
and  John  Bard  had  against  the  Piotto  gang.  Care 
to  tell  me  anything  of  it?" 

Lawlor  lolled  easily  back  in  his  chair  and  bal 
anced  a  second  large  drink  between  thumb  and 
forefinger. 

220 


"The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason"  221 

"There  ain't  no  harm  in  talk,  son;  sure  I'll  tell 
you  about  it.  What  d'you  want  to  know?" 

"The  way  Bard  fought — the  way  you  both 
fought." 

"Lemme  see." 

He  closed  his  eyes  like  one  who  strives  to  re 
collect;  he  was,  in  fact,  carefully  recalling  the 
skeleton  of  facts  which  Drew  had  told  him  earlier 
in  the  day. 

"Six  months,  me  and  Bard  had  been  trailin' 
Piotto,  damn  his  old  soul!  Bard — he'd  of  quit 
cold  a  couple  of  times,  but  I  kept  him  at  it.  " 

"John  Bard  would  have  quit?"  asked  Anthony 
softly. 

"Sure.  He  was  a  big  man,  was  Bard,  but  he 
didn't  have  none  too  much  endurance. " 

"Go  on, "  nodded  Anthony. 

"Six  months,  I  say,  we  was  ridin'  day  and  night 
and  wearin'  out  a  hoss  about  every  week  of  that 
time.  Then  we  got  jest  a  hint  from  a  barten 
der  that  maybe  the  Piottos  was  nearby  in  that 
section. 

"It  didn't  need  no  more  than  a  hint  for  us  to  get 
busy  on  the  trail.  We  hit  a  circle  through  the 
mountains — it  was  over  near  Twin  Rivers  where 
the  ground  ain't  got  a  level  stretch  of  a  hundred 
yards  in  a  whole  day's  ridin'.  And  along  about 


222  Trailin' 

evenin'  of  the  second  day  we  come  to  the  house 
of  Tom  Shaw,  a  squatter. 

' '  Bard  would  of  passed  the  house  up,  because  he 
knew  Shaw  and  said  there  wasn't  nothin'  crooked 
about  him,  but  I  didn't  trust  nobody  in  them 
days — and  I  ain't  changed  a  pile  since." 

"That,"  remarked  Anthony,  "is  an  example  I 
think  I  shall  follow. " 

"  Eh  ? "  said  La wlor,  somewhat  blankly.  ' '  Well, 
we  rode  up  on  the  blind  side  of  the  house — from 
the  north,  see,  got  off,  and  sneaked  around  to  the 
east  end  of  the  shack.  The  windows  was  covered 
with  cloths  on  the  inside,  which  didn't  make  me 
none  too  sure  about  Shaw  havin'  no  dealin's  with 
crooks.  It  ain't  ordinary  for  a  feller  to  be  so  savin' 
on  light.  Pretty  soon  we  found  a  tear  in  one  of  the 
cloths,  and  lookin'  through  that  we  seen  old  Piotto 
sit  tin'  beside  Tom  Shaw  with  his  daughter  on  the 
other  side. 

"We  went  back  to  the  north  side  of  the  hous 
and  figured  out  different  ways  of  tacklin'  the  job. 
There  was  only  the  two  of  us,  see,  and  the  fell* 
inside  that  house  was  all  cut  out  for  man-killei 
How  would  you  have  gone  after  'em,  son?" 

"Opened  the  door,  I  suppose,  and  started  shoot 
ing,  "  said  Bard,  "if  I  had  the  courage." 

The  other  stared  at  him. 


"The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason "  223 

"You  heard  this  story  before?" 

"Not  this  part." 

"Well,  that  was  jest  what  we  done.  First  off, 
it  sounds  like  a  fool  way  of  tacklin'  them;  but 
when  you  think  twice  it  was  the  best  of  all.  They 
never  was  expectin'  anybody  fool  enough  to  walk 
right  into  that  room  and  start  fightin'.  We  went 
back  and  had  a  look  at  the  door. 

"It  wasn't  none  too  husky.  John  Bard,  he  tried 
the  latch,  soft,  but  the  thing  was  locked,  and  when 
he  pulled  there  was  a  snap. 

"'Who's  there?'  hollers  someone  inside. 

"We  froze  ag'in'  the  side  of  the  house,  lookin* 
at  each  other  pretty  sick. 

"'Nobody's  there,'  sings  out  the  voice  of  old 
Piotto.  'We  can  trust  Tom  Shaw,  jest  because  he 
knows  that  if  he  double-crossed  us  he'd  be  the 
first  man  to  die. ' 

"And  we  heard  Tom  say,  sort  of  quaverin': 
'God's  sake,  boys,  what  d'you  think  I  am?' 

"'Now,'  says  Bard,  and  we  put  our  shoulders 
to  the  door,  and  takes  our  guns  in  our  hands — we 
each  had  two. 

"The  door  went  down  like  nothin',  because  we 
was  both  husky  fellers  in  them  days,  and  as  she 
smashed  in  the  fall  upset  two  of  the  boys  sittin' 
closest  and  gave  'em  no  chance  on  a  quick  draw. 


224  Trailin' 

The  rest  of  'em  was  too  paralyzed  at  first,  except 
old  Piotto.  He  pulled  his  gun,  but  what  he  shot 
was  Tom  Shaw,  who  jest  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair  and  crumpled  up  dead. 

"We  went  at  'em,  pumpin'  lead.  It  wasn't  no 
fight  at  first  and  half  of  'em  was  down  before  they 
had  their  guns  workin'.  But  when  the  real  hell 
started  it  wasn't  no  fireside  story,  I'll  tell  a  man. 
We  had  the  jump  on  'em,  but  they  meant  business. 
I  dropped  to  the  floor  and  lay  on  my  side,  shootin' ; 
Bard,  he  followered  suit.  They  went  down  like 
tenpins  till  our  guns  were  empty.  Then  we  up 
and  rushed  what  was  left  of  'em — Piotto  and  his 
daughter.  Bard  makes  a  pass  to  knock  the  gun 
out  of  the  hand  of  Joan  and  wallops  her  on  the 
head  instead.  Down  she  goes.  I  finished  Piotto 
with  my  bare  hands. " 

"Broke  his  back,  eh?" 

1 '  Me  ?  Whoever  heard  of  breakin'  a  man's  back ? 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  been  hearin'  fairy  tales,  son. 
Nope,  I  choked  the  old  rat." 

"Were  you  badly  hurt?" 

Lawlor  searched  his  memory  hastily;  there  was 
no  information  on  this  important  point. 

"Couple  of  grazes,"  he  said,  dismissing  the 
subject  with  a  tolerant  wave  of  the  hand.  ' '  Nothin' 
worth  talkin' of ." 


"The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason'1  225 

"I  see,  "nodded  Bard. 

It  occurred  to  Lawlor  that  his  guest  was  taking 
the  narrative  in  a  remarkably  philosophic  spirit. 
He  reviewed  his  telling  of  the  story  hastily  and 
could  find  nothing  that  jarred. 

He  concluded : ' '  That  was  the  way  of  li  vin'  in  them 
days.  They  ain't  no  more — they  ain't  no  more!" 

"And  now,"  said  Anthony,  "the  only  excite 
ment  you  get  is  out  of  books — and  running  the 
labourers?" 

He  had  picked  up  the  book  which  Lawlor  had 
just  laid  down. 

"Oh,  I  read  a  bit  now  and  then, "  said  the  cow- 
puncher  easily,  "but  I  ain't  much  on  book- 
learnin'." 

Bard  was  turning  the  pages  slowly.  The  title, 
whose  meaning  dawned  slowly  on  his  astonished 
mind  as  a  sunset  comes  in  winter  over  a  grey 
landscape,  was  The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason.  He 
turned  the  book  over  and  over  in  his  hands.  It 
was  well  thumbed. 

He  asked,  controlling  his  voice:  "Are  you  fond 
of  Kant?" 

"Eh?"  queried  the  other. 

"Fond  of  this  book?" 

"Yep,  that's  one  of  my  favourites.  But  I  ain't 
much  on  any  books. " 

IS 


226  Trailin' 

"However,"  said  Bard,  "the  story  of  this  is 
interesting." 

' '  It  is.  There's  some  great  stuff  in  it, "  mumbled 
Lawlor,  trying  to  squint  at  the  title,  which  he  had 
quite  overlooked  during  the  daze  in  which  he  first 
picked  it  up. 

Bard  laid  the  book  aside  and  out  of  sight. 

"And  I  like  the  characters,  don't  you?  Some 
very  close  work  done  with  them. " 

"Yep,  there's  a  lot  of  narrow  escapes." 

"Exactly.    I'm  glad  that  we  agree  about  books." 

"So'm  I.  Feller  can  kill  a  lot  of  time  chinning 
about  books." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  a  good  many  people  have  killed 
time  over  this  book. " 

And  as  he  smiled  genially  upon  the  cowpuncher, 
Bard  felt  a  great  relief  sweep  over  him,  a  mighty 
gladness  that  this  was  not  Drew — that  this  loose- 
lipped  gabbler  was  not  the  man  who  had  written 
the  epitaph  over  the  tomb  of  Joan  Piotto.  He  lied 
about  the  book;  he  had  lied  about  it  all.  And 
knowing  that  this  was  not  Drew,  he  felt  suddenly 
as  if  someone  were  watching  him  from  behind, 
someone  large  and  grey  and  stern  of  eye,  like  the 
giant  who  had  spoken  to  him  so  long  before  in  the 
arena  at  Madison  Square  Garden. 

A  game  was  being  played  with  him,  and  behind 


"The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason"  227 

that  game  must  be  Drew  himself;  all  Bard  could 
do  was  to  wait  for  developments. 

The  familiar,  booming  voice  of  Shorty  Kilrain 
echoed  through  the  house : ' '  Supper ! ' ' 

And  the  loud  clangour  of  a  bell  supported  the 
invitation. 

"  Chow- time, "  breathed  Lawlor  heavily,  like  one 
relieved  at  the  end  of  a  hard  shift  of  work.  "I 
figure  you  ain't  sorry,  son?" 

"No,"  answered  Bard,  "but  it's  too  bad  to 
break  off  this  talk.  I've  learned  a  lot. " 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   STAGE 

"You  first,"  said  Lawlor  at  the  door. 

"I've  been  taught  to  let  an  older  man  go  first," 
said  Bard,  smiling  pleasantly.  "After  you,  sir." 

"Any  way  you  want  it,  Bard,"  answered  Law 
lor,  but  as  he  led  the  way  down  the  hall  he  was 
saying  to  himself,  through  his  stiffly  mumbling 
lips:  "He  knows!  Calamity  was  right;  there's 
going  to  be  hell  poppin'  before  long. " 

He  lengthened  his  stride  going  down  the  long 
hall  to  the  dining-room,  and  entering,  he  found 
the  cowpunchers  about  to  take  their  places  around 
the  big  table.  Straight  toward  the  head  to  the 
big  chair  he  stalked,  and  paused  an  instant  beside 
little  Duffy.  Their  interchange  of  whispers  was 
like  a  muffled  rapid-fire,  for  they  had  to  finish 
before  young  Bard,  now  just  entering  the  room, 
could  reach  them  and  take  his  designated  chair  at 
the  right  of  Lawlor. 

"He  knows,*'  muttered  Lawlor. 
228 


The  Stage  229 

"Hell!    Then  it's  all  up?" 

"No;  keep  bluffin';  wait.    How's  everything?" 

"Gregory  ain't  come  in,  but  Drew  may  put  him 
wise  before  he  gets  inside  the  house. " 

"You  done  all  I  could  expect,"  said  Lawlor 
aloud  as  Bard  came  up,  "but  to-morrow  go  back 
on  the  same  job  and  try  to  get  something  definite." 

To  Bard:  "Here's  your  place,  partner.  Just 
been  tellin'  Duffy,  there  on  your  right,  about  some 
work.  Some  of  the  doggies  have  been  rustled  lately 
2nd  we're  on  their  trail. " 

They  took  their  places,  and  Bard  surveyed  the 
room  carefully,  as  an  actor  who  stands  in  the  wings 
and  surveys  the  stage  on  which  he  is  soon  to  step 
and  play  a  great  part ;  for  in  Anthony  there  was  a 
gathering  sense  of  impending  disaster  and  action. 
What  he  saw  was  a  long,  low  apartment,  the  bare 
rafters  overhead  browned  by  the  kitchen  smoke, 
which  even  now  was  rolling  in  from  the  wide  door 
at  the  end  of  the  room — the  thick,  oily  smoke  of 
burnt  meat  mingled  with  steam  and  the  nameless 
vapours  of  a  great  oven. 

There  was  no  semblance  of  a  decoration  on  the 
walls;  the  boards  were  not  even  painted.  It  was 
strictly  a  place  for  use,  not  pleasure.  The  food 
itself  which  Shorty  Kilrain  and  Calamity  Ben  now 
brought  on  was  distinctly  utilitarian  rather  than 


230  Trailin' 

appetizing.  The  piece  de  resistance  was  a  mon 
strous  platter  heaped  high  with  beefsteak,  not  the 
inviting  meat  of  a  restaurant  in  a  civilized  cityv 
but  thin,  brown  slabs,  fried  dry  throughout.  The 
real  nourishment  was  in  the  gravy  in  which  the 
steak  swam.  In  a  dish  of  even  more  amazing  pro 
portions  was  a  vast  heap  of  potatoes  boiled  with 
their  jackets  on.  Lawlor  commenced  loading  the 
stack  of  plates  before  him,  each  with  a  slab  and  a 
potato  or  two. 

Meantime  from  a  number  of  big  coffee  pots  a 
stream  of  a  liquid,  bitter  as  lye  and  black  as  night, 
was  poured  into  the  tin  cups.  Yet  the  cattlemen 
about  the  table  settled  themselves  for  the  meal 
with  a  pleasant  expectation  fully  equal  to  that  of 
the  most  seasoned  gourmand  in  a  Manhattan 
restaurant. 

The  peculiar  cowboy's  squint — a  frowning  of 
the  brow  and  a  compression  of  the  thin  lips — 
relaxed.  That  frown  came  from  the  steady  effort 
to  shade  the  eyes  from  the  white-hot  sunlight ;  the 
compression  of  the  lips  was  due  to  a  determination 
to  admit  none  of  the  air,  laden  with  alkali  dust, 
except  through  the  nostrils.  It  grew  in  time  into  a 
perpetual  grimace,  so  that  the  expression  of  an 
old  range  rider  is  that  of  a  man  steeling  himself  to 
pass  through  some  grim  ordeal. 


The  Stage  231 

Now  as  they  relaxed,  Anthony  perceived  first 
of  all  that  most  of  the  grimness  passed  away  from 
the  narrowed  eyes  and  they  lighted  instead  with 
good-humoured  banter,  though  of  a  weary  nature. 
One  by  one,  they  cast  off  ten  years  of  age;  the  lines 
rubbed  out;  the  jaws  which  had  thrust  out  grew 
normal ;  the  leaning  heads  straightened  and  went 
back. 

They  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  the 
newcomer,  talking  easily  among  themselves,  but 
Anthony  was  certain  that  at  least  some  of  them 
were  thinking  of  him.  If  they  said  nothing,  their 
thoughts  were  the  more. 

In  fact,  in  the  meantime  little  Duffy  had  passed 
on  to  the  next  man,  in  a  side  mutter,  the  signifi 
cant  phrase:  "He  knows !"  It  went  from  lip  to 
lip  like  a  watchword  passing  along  a  line  of  sen 
tinels.  Each  man  heard  it  imperturbably,  com 
pleted  the  sentence  he  was  speaking  before,  or 
maintained  his  original  silence  through  a  pause, 
and  then  repeated  it  to  his  right-hand  neighbour. 
Their  demeanour  did  not  alter  perceptibly,  except 
that  the  laughter,  perhaps,  became  a  little  more 
uproarious,  and  they  were  sitting  straight er  in 
their  chairs,  their  eyes  brighter. 

All  they  knew  was  that  Drew  had  impressed  on 
them  that  Bard  must  not  leave  that  room  in  com- 


232  Trailin' 

mand  of  his  six-shooter  or  even  of  his  hands.  He 
must  be  bound  securely.  The  working  out  of  the 
details  of  execution  he  had  left  to  their  own  in 
genuity.  It  might  have  seemed  a  little  thing  to  do 
to  greener  fellows,  but  every  one  of  these  men  was 
an  experienced  cowpuncher,  and  like  all  old  hands 
on  the  range  they  were  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
amount  of  damage  which  a  single  armed  man  can 
do. 

The  thing  could  be  done,  of  course,  but  the  point 
was  to  do  it  with  the  minimum  of  danger.  So  they 
waited,  and  talked,  and  ate  and  always  from  the 
corners  of  their  eyes  were  conscious  of  the  slightly 
built,  inoffensive  man  who  sat  beside  Lawlor  near 
the  head  of  the  table.  In  appearance  he  was  surely 
most  innocuous,  but  Nash  had  spoken,  and  in  such 
matters  they  were  all  willing  to  take  his  word  with 
a  childlike  faith. 

So  the  meal  went  on,  and  the  only  sign,  to  the 
most  experienced  eye,  was  that  the  chairs  were 
placed  a  little  far  back  from  the  edge  of  the  table, 
a  most  necessary  condition  when  men  may  have 
to  rise  rapidly  or  get  at  their  holsters  for  a  quick 
draw. 

Calamity  Ben  bearing  a  mighty  dish  of  bread 
pudding,  passed  directly  behind  the  chair  of  the 
stranger.  The  whole  table  watched  with  a  sudden 


The  Stage  233 

keenness,  and  they  saw  Bard  turn,  ever  so  slightly, 
just  as  Calamity  passed  behind  the  chair. 

"I  say, "  he  said,  "may  I  have  a  bit  of  hot  water 
to  put  in  this  coffee?" 

"Sure,"  said  Calamity,  and  went  on,  but  the 
whole  table  knew  that  the  stranger  was  on  his 
guard. 

The  mutual  suspicion  gave  a  tenseness  to  the 
atmosphere,  as  if  it  were  charged  with  the  elec 
tricity  of  a  coming  storm,  a  tingling  waiting  which 
made  the  men  prone  to  become  silent  and  then  talk 
again  in  fitful  outbursts.  Or  it  might  be  said  that 
it  was  like  a  glass  full  of  precipitate  which  only 
waits  for  the  injection  of  a  single  unusual  sub 
stance  before  it  settles  to  the  bottom  and  leaves  the 
remaining  liquid  clear.  It  was  for  the  unusual, 
then,  that  the  entire  assembly  waited,  feeling 
momentarily  that  it  must  be  coming,  for  the  strain 
could  not  endure. 

As  for  Bard,  he  stuck  by  his  original  apparent 
indifference.  For  he  still  felt  sure  that  the  real 
William  Drew  was  behind  this  elaborate  decep 
tion  and  the  thing  for  which  he  waited  was  some 
revelation  of  the  hand  of  the  master.  The  trumps 
which  he  felt  he  held  was  in  being  forewarned ;  he 
could  not  see  that  the  others  knew  his  hand. 

He  said  to  Lawlor : ' '  I  think  a  man  named  Nash 


234  Trailin' 

works  on  this  ranch.  I  expected  to  see  him  at 
supper  here. " 

"Nash?"  answered  Lawlor.  "Sure,  he  used  to 
be  foreman  here.  Ain't  no  more.  Nope — I 
couldn't  stand  for  his  lip.  Didn't  mind  him  getting 
fresh  till  he  tried  to  ride  me.  Then  I  turned  him 
loose.  Where  did  you  meet  him? " 

"While  I  was  riding  in  this  direction." 

"Want  to  see  him  bad?" 

The  other  moistened  his  lips. 

' '  Rather !    He  killed  my  horse. ' ' 

A  silence  fell  on  these  who  were  within  hearing. 
They  would  not  have  given  equal  attention  to  the 
story  of  the  killing  of  a  man. 

"How'd  he  get  away  with  it?" 

"The  Saverack  was  between  us.  Before  I 
could  get  my  gun  out  he  was  riding  out  of 
range.  I'll  meet  him  and  have  another  talk  some 
day." 

"Well,  the  range  ain't  very  small. " 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  it's  not  nearly  as  big  as 
my  certainty  of  meeting  this — cur. " 

There  is  something  in  a  low,  slow  voice  more 
thrilling  than  the  thunder  of  actual  rage.  Those 
who  heard  glaijced  to  one  another  with  thoughtful 
eyes.  They  were  thinking  of  Nash,  and  thinking 
of  him  with  sympathy. 


The  Stage  235 

Little  Duffy,  squat  and  thick-set,  felt  inspira 
tion  descend  on  him.  He  turned  to  Bard  on  his 
left. 

"That  ain't  a  full-size  forty-five,  is  it —  that  one 
you're  packin'?" 

"Doesn't  it  look  it?"  answered  Bard. 

"Nope.    Holster  seems  pretty  small  to  me." 

"It's  the  usual  gun,  I'm  sure,"  said  Bard,  and 
pulled  the  weapon  from  the  leather. 

Holding  the  butt  loosely,  his  trigger  finger 
hooked  clear  around  the  far  side  of  the  guard,  he 
showed  the  gun. 

"I  was  wrong,"  nodded  Duffy  unabashed, 
"that's  the  regular  kind.  Let's  have  a  look 
at  it. " 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  No  one  would 
ever  have  guessed  how  closely  the  table  followed 
what  now  happened,  for  each  man  began  talking 
in  a  voice  even  louder  than  before.  It  was  as  if 
they  sought  to  cover  the  stratagem  of  Duffy  with 
their  noise. 

"There's  nothing  unusual  about  the  gun, "  said 
Bard,  "but  I'd  be  glad  to  let  you  have  it  except 
that  I've  formed  a  habit  of  never  letting  a  six- 
shooter  get  away  from  me.  It's  a  foolish  habit,  I 
know,  but  I  can't  lose  it.  If  there's  any  part  you'd 
like  to  see,  just  name  it." 


236  Trailin' 

' '  Thanks, ' '  answered  Duffy.  ' '  I  guess  I  Ve  seen 
all  I  want  of  it. " 

Calamity  had  failed ;  Duffy  had  failed.  It  began 
to  look  as  if  force  of  downright  numbers  must 
settle  the  affair. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SALLY    BREAKS    A   MIRROR 

As  Sally  had  remarked  the  night  before,  one 
does  not  pay  much  attention  to  a  toilet  when  one 
rises  at  5  A.M.  At  least  that  is  the  rule,  but  Sally, 
turning  out  with  a  groan  in  the  chill,  dark  room, 
shut  off  the  alarm,  lighted  her  lamp,  and  set  about 
the  serious  task  of  dressing.  A  woman,  after  all, 
is  much  like  a  diplomatic  statesman ;  a  hint  along 
certain  lines  is  more  to  her  than  a  sworn  state 
ment. 

She  had  secured  a  large  mirror,  and  in  front  of 
this  she  laboured  patiently  for  a  full  ten  minutes, 
twisting  her  hair  this  way  and  that,  and  using  the 
comb  and  brush  vigorously.  Now  and  then,  as 
she  worked,  she  became  aware  that  a  fluff  of  hair 
rolling  down  low  over  her  forehead  did  amazing 
things  to  her  face  and  brought  her  from  Sally 
Fortune  into  the  strange  dignity  of  a  "lady. " 
But  she  could  not  complete  any  of  the  manoeuvres, 
no  matter  how  promisingly  they  started.  In  the 

237 


238  Trailin' 

end  she  dashed  a  handful  of  hairpins  on  the  floor 
and  wound  the  hair  about  her  head  with  a  few 
swift  turns. 

She  studied  the  sullen,  boyish  visage  which 
looked  back  at  her.  After  all,  she  would  be  un 
mercifully  joked  if  she  were  to  appear  with  her 
hair  grown  suddenly  fluffy  and  womanly — it  would 
become  impossible  for  her  to  run  the  eating-place 
without  the  assistance  of  a  man,  and  a  fighting 
man  at  that.  So  what  was  the  use  ?  She  threw  the 
mirror  crashing  on  the  floor;  it  splintered  in  a 
thousand  pieces. 

"After  all,"  she  murmured  aloud,  "do  I  want 
to  be  a  woman?" 

The  sullen  mouth  undoubtedly  answered  "No"; 
the  wistful  eyes  undoubtedly  replied  in  another 
key.  She  shrugged  the  question  away  and  stepped 
out  of  her  room  toward  the  kitchen,  whistling  a 
tune  to  raise  her  spirits. 

"Late,  Sally,"  said  the  cook,  tossing  another 
hot  cake  on  the  growing  pile  which  surmounted 
the  warmer. 

"Sure;  I  busted  my  mirror,  "  said  Sally. 

The  cook  stared  at  her  in  such  astonishment 
that  he  allowed  a  quantity  of  dough  to  fall  from 
the  dish  cupped  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm;  it  over 
flowed  the  griddle-iron. 


Sally  Breaks  a  Mirror         239 

''Blockhead!"  shouted  Sally.  "Watch  your 
step!" 

She  resumed,  when  the  dough  had  been  rescued 
by  somewhat  questionable  means:  "D'you  think 
a  girl  can  dress  in  the  dark?" 

But  the  cook  had  had  too  much  experience  with 
his  employer  to  press  what  seemed  a  tender  point. 
He  confined  his  attention  to  the  pancakes. 

"There  ain't  no  fool  worse  than  a  he-fool," 
continued  Sally  bitterly.  "Which  maybe  you 
think  a  girl  can  dress  without  a  mirror?" 

Since  this  taunt  brought  no  response  from  her 
victim,  she  went  on  into  the  eating-room.  It  was 
already  filling,  and  the  duties  of  her  strenuous  day 
began. 

They  continued  without  interruption  hour  after 
hour,  for  the  popularity  of  her  restaurant  had 
driven  all  competition  out  of  Eldara,  a  result 
which  filled  the  pocket-book  and  fattened  the 
bank  account  of  Sally  Fortune,  but  loaded  un 
numbered  burdens  onto  her  strong  shoulders. 
For  she  could  not  hire  a  waiter  to  take  her  place; 
every  man  who  came  into  the  eating-room  ex 
pected  to  be  served  by  the  slim  hands  of  Sally 
herself,  and  he  expected  also  some  trifling  repar 
tee  which  would  make  him  pay  his  bill  with  a 
grin. 


240  Trailin' 

The  repartee  dragged  with  Sally  to-day,  almost 
to  sullenness,  and  when  she  began  to  grow  weary 
in  the  early  afternoon,  there  was  no  reserve 
strength  on  which  she  could  fall  back.  She  sud 
denly  became  aware  that  she  wanted  support,  aid, 
comfort.  Finally  she  spilled  a  great  armful  of 
"empties"  down  on  the  long  drain-board  of  the 
sink,  turned  to  the  wall,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  The  cook,  Bert,  though  he  cast  a  startled 
glance  at  her  would  not  have  dared  to  speak,  after 
that  encounter  of  the  morning,  but  a  rather  ex 
plosive  sniff  was  too  eloquent  an  appeal  to  his 
manliness. 

His  left  sleeve  having  fallen,  he  rolled  it  back, 
tied  the  strings  of  the  apron  tighter  about  his 
plump  middle,  and  advanced  to  the  battle.  His 
hand  touched  the  shoulder  of  the  girl. 

"Sally!" 

"Shut  your  face!"  moaned  a  stifled  voice. 

But  he  took  his  courage  between  his  teeth  and 
persisted. 

"Sally,  somethin'  is  wrong." 

"Nothin'  you  can  right,  Fatty,"  said  the  same 
woe-stricken  voice. 

"Sally,  if  somebody's  been  gettin'  fresh  with 
you " 

Her  arms  jerked  down;  she  whirled  and  faced 


Sally  Breaks  a  Mirror         241 

him  with  clenched  fists;  her  eyes  shining  more 
brightly  for  the  mist  which  was  in  them. 

" Fresh  with  me?  Why,  you  poor,  one-horned 
yearling,  d'you  think  there's  anybody  in  Eldara 
man  enough  to  get  fresh  with  me  ? ' ' 

Bert  retreated  a  step;  caution  was  a  moving 
element  in  his  nature.  From  a  vantage  point 
behind  a  table,  however,  he  ventured:  "Then 
what  is  wrong?" 

Her  woe,  apparently,  was  greater  than  her 
wrath. 

She  said  sadly : ' '  I  dunno,  Bert.  I  ain't  the  man 
I  used  to  be — I  mean,  the  woman. " 

He  waited,  his  small  eyes  gentle.  What  woman 
can  altogether  resist  sympathy,  even  from  a  fat 
man  and  a  cook?  Not  even  the  redoubtable  soul 
of  a  Sally. 

She  confessed :  ' '  I  feel  sort  of  hollow  and  gone — 
around  the  stomach,  Fatty." 

"Eat, "  suggested  the  cook.  "I  just  took  out  a 
pie  that  would 

"But  it  ain't  the  stomach.  It's  like  bein' 
hungry  and  wantin'  no  food.  Fatty,  d'you  think 
I'm  sick?" 

"You  look  kind  of  whitish. " 

"Fatty,  I  feel " 

She  hesitated,  as  though  too  great  a  confession 

16 


242  Trailin' 

were  at  her  lips,  but  she  stumbled  on :  "I  feel  &: 
if  I  was  afraid  of  something  or  someone. " 

"That,"  said  Bert  confidently,  "ain't  possible. 
It's  the  stomach,  Sally.  Something  ain't  agreed 
with  you. " 

She  turned  from  him  with  a  vague  gesture  of 
despair. 

"If  this  here  feelin'  is  goin'  to  keep  up — why,  I 
wisht  I  was  dead — I  wisht  I  was  dead ! ' ' 

She  went  on  to  the  swinging  door,  paused  there 
to  dab  her  eyes  swiftly,  started  to  whistle  a  tune, 
and  in  this  fashion  marched  back  to  the  eating- 
room.  Fatty,  turning  back  to  the  stove,  shook  his 
head;  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced  in  his 
secret  theory  that  all  women  are  crazy. 

Sally  found  that  a  new  man  had  entered,  one 
whom  she  could  not  remember  having  seen  before. 
She  went  to  him  at  once,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  would  die,  indeed,  if  she  had  to  look  much 
longer  on  the  familiar,  unshaven  faces  of  the  other 
men  in  the  room. 

"Anything  you  got,  "  said  the  stranger,  who  was 
broad  of  hands  and  thick  of  neck  and  he  cast  an 
anxious  eye  on  her.  "I  hear  you  seen  something 
of  a  thinnish,  dark  feller  named  Bard. " 

' '  What  d'  you  want  with  him  ? ' '  asked  Sally  with 
dangerous  calm. 


Sally  Breaks  a  Mirror         243 

"  I  was  aimin'  to  meet  up  with  him.    That's  all." 

"  Partner,  if  you  want  to  stand  in  solid  around 
here,  don't  let  out  that  you're  a  friend  of  his.  He 
ain't  none  too  popular;  that's  straight  and  puttin' 
it  nice  and  easy." 

"Which  who  said  I  was  his  friend?"  said  the 
other  with  heat. 

She  turned  away  to  the  kitchen  and  reappeared 
shortly,  bearing  his  meal.  The  frown  with  which 
she  departed  had  disappeared,  and  she  was  smiling 
as  brightly  as  ever  while  she  arranged  the  dishes  in 
front  of  him.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the  food. 

"Now, "  she  said,  resting  both  hands  on  the 
table  and  leaning  so  that  she  could  look  him 
directly  in  the  eye:  "What's  Bard  done  now? 
Horse — gun-fighter — woman ;  which  ? ' ' 

The  other  loosened  the  bandanna  which  circled 
his  bull  neck. 

"Woman,"  he  said  hoarsely,  and  the  blood 
swelled  his  throat  and  face  with  veins  of  purple. 

"Ah-h-h, "  drawled  the  girl,  and  straightening, 
she  dropped  both  hands  on  her  hips.  It  was  a 
struggle,  but  she  managed  to  summon  another 
smile. 

'  *  Wife — sister — sweetheart  ? ' f 

The  man  stared  dubiously  on  her,  and  Sally, 
mother  to  five  hundred  wild  rangers,  knew  the 


244  Trailin' 

symptoms  of  a  man  eager  for  a  confidant.  She 
slipped  into  the  opposite  chair. 

"It  might  be  any  of  the  three,"  she  went  on 
gently,  "and  I  know  because  I've  seen  him  work." 

' '  Damn  his  soul ! "  growled  the  other  by  way  of  a 
prefix  to  his  story.  ' '  It  ain't  any  of  the  three  with 
me.  This  Bard — maybe  he  tried  his  hand  with 
you?" 

Whether  it  was  rage  or  scorn  that  made  her  start 
and  redden  he  could  not  tell. 

"Me?"  she  repeated.  "A  tenderfoot  get  fresh 
with  me?  Stranger,  you  ain't  been  long  in  Eldara 
or  you  wouldn't  pull  a  bonehead  like  that. " 

"  'Scuse  me.  I  was  hopin'  that  maybe  you  took 
a  fall  out  of  him,  that's  all. " 

He  studied  the  blue  eyes.  They  had  been  tinted 
with  ugly  green  a  moment  before,  but  now  they 
were  clear,  deep,  dark,  guileless  blue.  He  could  not 
resist.  The  very  nearness  of  the  woman  was  like  a 
gentle,  cool  hand  caressing  his  forehead  and  rub 
bing  away  the  troubles. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  began.  "Me  and  Lizzie 
had  been  thick  for  a  couple  of  years  and  was  jest 
waitin'  till  I'd  corralled  enough  cash  for  a  start. 
Then  the  other  day  along  comes  this  feller  Bard 
with  a  queer  way  of  talkin'  school  language.  Made 
you  feel  like  you  was  readin'  a  bit  out  of  a  diction- 


Sally  Breaks  a  Mirror         245 

ary  jest  to  listen  to  him  for  a  minute.  Liz,  she 
never  heard  nothin'  like  it,  I  figure.  She  got  all 
eyes  and  sat  still  and  listened.  Bein'  like  that  he 
plumb  made  a  fool  out  of  Liz.  Kidded  her  along 
and  wound  up  by  kissing  her  good-bye,  I  didn't 
see  none  of  this ;  I  jest  heard  about  it  later.  When 
I  come  up  and  started  talkin'  jest  friendly  with 
Liz  she  got  sore  and  passed  me  the  frosty  stare. 
I  didn't  think  she  could  be  doin'  more  than  kiddin' 
me  a  bit,  so  I  kept  right  on  and  it  ended  up  with 
Liz  sayin'  that  all  was  over  between  us. " 

He  paused  on  his  tragedy,  set  his  teeth  over 
a  sigh,  and  went  on:  "The  feller  ain't  no  good. 
I  know  that  from  a  chap  that  come  to  the 
house  a  few  hours  after  Bard  left.  Nash  was  his 
name " 

"What!" 

1 '  Nash.  Feller  built  husky  around  the  shoulders 
— looks  like  a  fighter.  Know  him  ? " 

* '  Pretty  well.  D'you  say  he  come  to  your  house 
right  after  Bard  left  it?" 

"Yep.    Why?" 

"How  long  ago  was  this?" 

"About  three  days." 

"Three  days?" 

"What's  wrong?" 

"Nothin'." 


246  Trailin' 

"You  look  like  you  was  goin*  to  murder  some 
one,  lady, " 

Her  laughter  ended  with  a  jerk  and  jar. 

"Maybe  I  am.  G'wan!  Tell  me  some  more 
about  what  Nash  said." 

"Why,  he  didn't  say  much.  Hinted  around 
that  maybe  Bard  had  walked  off  with  the  piebald 
hoss  he  was  ridin'." 

"That's  a  lie." 

"Lady, "  said  the  other  a  little  coldly,  "you  say 
that  like  you  was  a  friend  of  Bard's. " 

"Me?  There  ain't  nobody  around  these  parts 
man  enough  to  say  to  my  face  that  I'm  a  friend  of 
that  tenderfoot." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.     My  name's  Ralph  Board- 


man.' 


"I'm  Sally  Fortune." 

"Sure;  I've  heard  of  you — a  lot.  Say,  you 
couldn't  tip  me  off  where  I  could  hit  the  trail  of 
Bard?" 

' '  Dunno.    Wait ;  lemme  see. ' ' 

She  studied,  with  closed  eyes.  What  she  was 
thinking  was  that  if  Nash  had  been  so  close  to  Bard 
three  days  before  he  was  surely  on  the  trail  of  the 
tenderfoot  and  certainly  that  meeting  in  her  .place 
had  not  been  a  casual  one.  She  set  her  teeth, 
thinking  of  the  promise  Nash  had  given  to  her. 


Sally  Breaks  a  Mirror         247 

Undoubtedly  he  had  laughed  at  it  afterward. 
And  now  Bard  probably  lay  stretched  on  his  back 
somewhere  among  the  silent  hills  looking  up  to 
the  pitiless  brightness  of  the  sky  with  eyes  which 
could  never  shut. 

The  hollow  feeling  of  which  Sally  had  com 
plained  to  Bert  grew  to  a  positive  ache,  and  the 
tears  stood  up  closer  to  her  eyes. 

"Wait  around  town,"  she  said  in  a  changed 
voice.  "I  think  I  heard  him  say  something  of 
riding  out,  but  he'll  be  back  before  long.  That's 
the  only  tip  I  can  give  you,  partner. " 

So  she  rose  and  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Bert,"  she  said,  "I'm  off  for  the  rest  of  the 
.day.  You  got  to  handle  the  place. " 

He  panted:  "But  the  heavy  rush — it  ain't 
started  yet." 

"It's  started  for  me." 

"What  d'youmean?" 

"Nothin'.  I'm  on  my  way.  S'long,  Bert. 
Back  in  the  mornin'  bright  and  early. " 

If  she  could  not  find  Bard  at  least  she  could  find 
Nash  at  the  ranch  of  Drew,  and  in  that  direction 
she  headed  her  racing  horse. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    SHOW 

JAN  SEN,  the  big  Swede,  was  the  first  to  finish 
his  meal  in  Drew's  dining-room.  For  that  matter, 
he  was  always  first.  He  ate  with  astonishing  ex 
pedition,  lowering  his  head  till  that  tremendous, 
shapeless  mouth  was  close  to  the  plate  and  then 
working  knife  and  fork  alternately  with  an  un 
faltering  industry.  To-night,  spurred  on  by  a 
desire  to  pass  through  this  mechanical  effort  and 
be  prepared  for  the  coming  action,  his  speed  was 
something  truly  marvellous.  He  did  not  appear 
to  eat;  the  food  simply  vanished  from  the  plate; 
it  was  absorbed  like  a  mist  before  the  wind.  While 
the  others  were  barely  growing  settled  in  their 
places,  Jansen  was  already  through. 

He  wiped  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand, 
produced  Durham  and  papers,  and  proceeded  to 
light  up.  Lawlor,  struggling  still  to  re-establish 
himself  in  the  eyes  of  Bard  as  the  real  William 
Drew,  seized  the  opportunity  to  exert  a  show 

248 


The  Show  249 

of  authority.  He  smashed  his  big  fist  on  the 
table. 

* '  Jansen ! "  he  roared. 

"Eh?"  grunted  the  Swede. 

"Where  was  you  raised?" 

"Me?" 

"You,  square-head." 

"Elvaruheimarstadhaven. " 

"Are  you  sneezin'  or  talkin'  English?" 

Jansen,  irritated,  bellowed : ' '  Elvaruheimarstad 
haven!  That's  where  I  was  born. " 

"That's  where  you  was  born?  Elvaru — damn 
such  a  language!  No  wonder  you  Swedes  don't 
know  nothin'.  It  takes  all  your  time  learnin' 
how  to  talk  your  lingo.  But  if  you  ain't  never 
had  no  special  trainin'  in  manners,  I'm  goin'  to 
make  a  late  start  with  you  now.  Put  out  that 
cigarette!" 

The  pale  eyes  of  Jansen  stared,  fascinated;  the 
vast  mouth  fell  agape. 

"Maybe,"  he  began,  and  then  finished  weakly: 
"I  be  damned!" 

"There  ain't  no  reasonable  way  of  doubtin'  that 
unless  you  put  out  that  smoke.  Hear  me?" 

Shorty  Kilrain,  coming  from  the  kitchen, 
grinned  broadly.  Having  felt  the  lash  of  discipline 
himself,  he  was  glad  to  see  it  fall  in  another  place. 


250  TraiKn5 

He  continued  his  gleeful  course  around  that  side' 
of  the  table. 

And  big  Jansen  slowly,  imperturbably,  raised 
the  cigarette  and  inhaled  a  mighty  cloud  of  smoke 
which  issued  at  once  in  a  rushing,  fine  blue  mist, 
impelled  by  a  snort. 

"Maybe,"  he  rumbled,  completing  his  thought, 
" maybe  you're  one  damn  fool!" 

"I'm  going  to  learn  you  who's  boss  in  these 
parts, "  boomed  Lawlor.  "Put  out  that  cigarette! 
Don't  you  know  no  better  than  to  smoke  at  the 
table?" 

Jansen  pushed  back  his  chair  and  started  to  rise. 
There  was  no  doubt  as  to  his  intentions ;  they  were 
advertised  in  the  dull  and  growing  red  which 
flamed  in  his  face.  But  Kilrain,  as  though  he  had 
known  such  a  moment  would  come,  caught  the 
Swede  by  the  shoulders  and  forced  him  back  into 
the  chair.  As  he  did  so  he  whispered  something 
in  the  ear  of  Jansen. 

"Let  him  go!"  bellowed  Lawlor.  "Let  him 
come  on.  Don't  hold  him.  I  ain't  had  work  for 
my  hands  for  five  years.  I  need  exercise,  I  do. " 

The  mouth  of  Jansen  stirred,  but  no  words 
came.  A  hopeless  yearning  was  in  his  eyes.  But 
he  dropped  the  cigarette  and  ground  it  under  his 
heel. 


The  Show  251 

"I  thought,"  growled  Lawlor,  "that  you  knew 
your  master,  but  don't  make  no  mistake  again. 
Speakin'  personal,  I  don't  think  no  more  of 
knockin'  down  a  Swede  than  I  do  of  flickin'  the 
ashes  off'n  a  cigar. " 

He  indulged  in  a  side  glance  at  Bard  to  see  if  the 
latter  were  properly  impressed,  but  Anthony  was 
staring  blankly  straight  before  him,  unable,  to  all 
appearances,  to  see  anything  of  what  was  hap 
pening. 

"Kilrain, "  went  on  Lawlor,  "trot  out  some 
cigars.  You  know  where  they're  kept. " 

Kilrain  falling  to  the  temptation,  asked : 
"Where's  the  key  to  the  cabinet?" 

For  Drew  kept  his  tobacco  in  a  small  cabinet, 
locked  because  of  long  experience  with  tobacco- 
loving  employees.  Lawlor  started  to  speak, 
checked  himself,  fumbled  through  his  pockets, 
and  then  roared:  "Smash  the  door  open.  I  mis 
placed  the  key. " 

No  semblance  of  a  smile  altered  the  faces  of  the 
cowpunchers  around  the  table,  but  glances  of 
vague  meaning  were  interchanged.  Kilrain  re 
appeared  almost  at  once,  bearing  a  large  box  of 
cigars  under  each  arm. 

"The  eats  bein'  over,"  announced  Lawlor, 
"we  can  now  light  up.  Open  them  boxes,  Shorty. 


252  Trailin' 

Am  I  goin'  to  work  on  you  the  rest  of  my  life 
teachin'  you  how  to  serve  cigars?" 

Kilrain  sighed  deeply,  but  obeyed,  presenting 
the  open  boxes  in  turn  to  Bard,  who  thanked  him, 
and  to  Lawlor,  who  bit  off  the  end  of  his  smoke 
continued:  "A  match,  Kilrain." 

And  he  waited,  swelling  with  pleasure,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  space.  Kilrain  lighted  a  match  and 
held  it  for  the  two  in  turn.  Two  rows  of  waiting, 
expectant  eyes  were  turned  from  the  whole  length, 
of  the  table,  toward  the  cigars. 

"Shall  I  pass  on  the  cigars?"  suggested 
Bard. 

"These  smokes?"  breathed  Lawlor.  " Waste 
'em  on  common  hands  ?  Partner,  you  ain't  serious, 
are  you?" 

A  breath  like  the  faint  sighing  of  wind  reached 
them;  the  cowpunchers  were  resigned,  and  started 
now  to  roll  their  Durham.  But  it  seemed  as  if  a 
chuckle  came  from  above ;  it  was  only  some  sound 
in  the  gasoline  lamp,  a  big  fixture  which  hung 
suspended  by  a  slender  chain  from  the  centre  of 
the  ceiling  and  immediately  above  the  table. 

"Civilizin'  cowpunchers,"  went  on  Lawlor, 
tilting  back  in  his  chair  and  bracing  his  feet  against 
the  edge  of  the  table,  "civilizin'  cowpunchers  is 
worse'n  breakin'  mustangs.  They's  some  that  say 


The  Show  253 

it  can't  be  done.  But  look  at  this  crew.  Do  they 
look  like  rough  uns?" 

A  stir  had  passed  among  the  cowpunchers  and 
solemn  stares  of  hate  transfixed  Lawlor,  but  he 
went  on : ' ' I'm  askin'  you,  do  these  look  rough  ? ' ' 

"I  should  say,"  answered  Bard  courteously, 
"that  you  have  a  pretty  experienced  lot  of  cattle 
men." 

"Experienced?  Well,  they'll  pass.  They've 
had  experience  with  bar  whisky  and  talkin'  to  their 
cards  at  poker,  but  aside  from  bein'  pretty  much 
drunks  and  crookin'  the  cards,  they  ain't  anything 
uncommon.  But  when  I  got  'em  they  was  wild, 
they  was.  Why,  if  I'd  talked  like  this  in  front  of 
'em  they'd  of  been  guns  pulled.  But  look  at  'em 
now.  I  ask  you:  Look  at  'em  now!  Ain't  they 
tame  ?  They  hear  me  call  'em  what  they  are,  but 
they  don't  even  bat  an  eye.  Yes,  sir,  I've  tamed 
'em.  They  took  a  lot  of  lickin',  but  now  they're 
tamed.  Hello!" 

For  through  the  door  stalked  a  newcomer.  He 
paused  and  cast  a  curious  eye  up  the  table  to 
Lawlor. 

"What  the  hell!"  he  remarked  naively. 
"Where's  the  chief?" 

"Fired!"  bellowed  Lawlor  without  a  moment  of 
hesitation. 


254  Trailin' 

"Who  fired  him?"  asked  the  new  man,  with  an 
expectant  smile,  like  one  who  waits  for  the  point 
of  a  joke,  but  he  caught  a  series  of  strange  signals 
from  men  at  the  table  and  many  a  broad  wink. 

"I  fired  him,  Gregory,"  answered  Lawlor.  "I 
fired  Nash!" 

He  turned  to  Bard. 

"You  see, "  he  said  rather  weakly,  "the  boys  is 
used  to  callin'  Nash  'the  chief. ' " 

"Ah,  yes, "  said  Bard,  "I  understand. " 

And  Lawlor  felt  that  he  did  understand,  and  too 
well. 

Gregory,  in  the  meantime,  silenced  by  the  mys 
terious  signs  from  his  fellow  cowpunchers,  took 
his  place  and  began  eating  without  another  word. 
No  one  spoke  to  him,  but  as  if  he  caught  the  tense 
ness  of  the  situation,  his  eyes  finally  turned  and 
glanced  up  the  table  to  Bard. 

It  was  easy,  for  Anthony  to  understand  that 
glance.  It  is  the  sort  of  look  which  the  curious 
turn  on  the  man  accused  of  a  great  crime  and 
sitting  in  the  court  room  guilty.  His  trial  in  silence 
had  continued  until  he  was  found  guilty.  Appar 
ently,  he  was  now  to  be  both  judged  and  executed 
at  the  same  time. 

There  could  not  be  long  delay.  The  entrance  of 
Gregory  had  almost  been  the  precipitant  of  action, 


The  Show  255 

and  though  it  had  been  smoothed  over  to  an  extent, 
still  the  air  was  each  moment  more  charged  with 
suspense.  The  men  were  lighting  their  second 
cigarette.  With  each  second  it  grew  clearer  that 
they  were  waiting  for  something.  And  as  if 
thoughtful  of  the  work  before  them,  they  no  longer 
talked  so  fluently. 

Finally  there  was  no  talk  at  all,  save  for  sporadic 
outbursts,  and  the  blue  smoke  and  the  brown 
curled  up  slowly  in  undisturbed  drifts  toward  the 
ceiling  until  a  bright  halo  formed  around  the  gaso 
line  lamp.  A  childish  thought  came  to  Bard  that 
where  the  smoke  was  so  thick  the  fire  could  not 
be  long  delayed. 

A  second  form  appeared  in  the  doorway,  lithe, 
graceful,  and  the  light  made  her  hair  almost  golden. 

1 '  Ev'nin' ,  fellers, ' '  called  Sally  jauntily.  ' '  Hello, 
Lawlor;  what  you  doin'  at  the  head  of  the  table?" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   LAMP 

THE  bluff  was  ended.  It  was  as  if  the  wind 
blew  a  cloud  suddenly  from  the  face  of  the  sun 
and  let  the  yellow  sunlight  pour  brightly  over  the 
world;  so  everyone  in  the  room  at  the  voice  of 
Sally  knew  that  the  time  had  come  for  action. 
There  was  no  vocal  answer  to  her,  but  each  man 
rose  slowly  in  his  place,  his  gun  naked  in  his  hand, 
and  every  face  was  turned  to  Bard. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  in  his  soft  voice,  "I  see 
that  my  friend  Lawlor  has  not  wasted  his  lessons 
in  manners.  At  least  you  know  enough  to  rise 
when  a  lady  enters  the  room. " 

His  gun,  held  at  the  hip,  pointed  straight  down 
the  table  to  the  burly  form  of  Jansen,  but  his  eyes, 
like  those  of  a  pugilist,  seemed  to  be  taking  in 
every  face  at  the  table,  and  each  man  felt  in  some 
subtle  manner  that  the  danger  would  fall  first  on 
him.  They  did  not  answer,  but  hands  were  tight 
ening  around  revolver  butts. 

256 


The  Lamp  257 

Lawlor  moved  back,  pace  by  pace,  his  revolver 
shaking  in  his  hand. 

"But, "  went  on  Bard,  "you  are  all  facing  me. 
Is  it  possible?" 

He  laughed. 

"I  knew  that  Mr.  Drew  was  very  anxious  to 
receive  me  with  courtesy;  I  did  not  dream  that  he 
would  be  able  to  induce  so  many  men  to  take  care 
of  me." 

And  Sally  Fortune,  bracing  herself  against  the 
wall  with  one  hand,  and  in  the  capable  grasp  of  the 
other  a  six-gun  balanced,  stared  in  growing  amaze 
ment  on  the  scene,  and  shuddered  at  the  silences. 

"Bard, "  she  called,  "what  have  I  done?" 

"You've  started  a  game, "  he  answered,  "which 
I  presume  we've  all  been  waiting  to  play.  What 
about  it,  boys?  I  hope  you're  well  paid;  I'd  hate 
to  die  a  cheap  death. " 

A  voice,  deep  and  ringing,  sounded  close  at 
hand,  almost  within  the  room,  and  from  a  direc 
tion  which  Bard  could  not  locate. 

"Don't  harm  him  if  you  can  help  it.  But  keep 
him  in  that  room!" 

Bard  stepped  back  a  pace  till  his  shoulders 
touched  the  wall. 

"Sirs,"  he  said,  "if  you  keep  me  here  you  will 
most  certainly  have  to  harm  me. " 

17 


258  Trailin' 

A  figure  ran  around  the  edge  of  the  crowd  and 
stood  beside  him. 

"  Stand  clear  of  me,  Sally, "  he  muttered,  much 
moved.  ''Stand  away.  This  is  a  man's  work. " 

"The  work  of  a  pack  of  coyotes!"  she  cried 
shrilly.  ' '  What  d'ye  mean  ? ' ' 

She  turned  on  them  fiercely. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  murder  a  tenderfoot  among 
you?  One  that  ain't  done  no  real  harm?  I  don't 
believe  my  eyes.  You,  there,  Shorty  Kilrain,  I've 
waited  on  you  with  my  own  hands.  You've  played 
the  man  with  me.  Are  you  goin'  to  play  the  dog 
now?  Jansen,  you  was  tellin'  me  about  a  blue- 
eyed  girl  in  Sweden;  have  you  forgot  about  her 
now?  And  Calamity  Ben!  My  God,  ain't  there  a 
man  among  you  to  step  over  here  and  join  the  two 
of  us?" 

They  were  shaken,  but  the  memory  of  Drew 
quelled  them. 

"They's  no  harm  intended  him,  on  my  honour, 
Sally,"  said  Lawlor.  "All  he's  got  to  do  is  give 
up  his  gun — and — and" — he  finished  weakly — 
"let  his  hands  be  tied." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Sally  scornfully. 

"Don't  follow  me,  Sally,"  said  Bard.  "Stay 
out  of  this.  Boys,  you  may  have  been  paid  high, 
but  I  don't  think  you've  been  paid  high  enough  to 


The  Lamp  259 

risk  taking  a  chance  with  me.  If  you  put  me  out 
with  the  first  shot  that  ends  it,  of  course,  but  the 
chances  are  that  I'll  be  alive  when  I  hit  the  floor, 
and  if  I  am,  111  have  my  gun  working — and  I  won't 
miss.  One  or  two  of  you  are  going  to  drop. " 

He  surveyed  them  with  a  quick  glance  which 
seemed  to  linger  on  each  face. 

"I  don't  know  who'll  go  first.  But  now  I'm 
going  to  walk  straight  for  that  door,  and  I'm  going 
out  of  it." 

He  moved  slowly,  deliberately  toward  the  door, 
around  the  table.  Still  they  did  not  shoot. 

"Bard!"  commanded  the  voice  which  had 
spoken  from  nowhere  before.  "Stop  where  you 
are.  Are  you  fool  enough  to  think  that  I'll  let 
you  go?" 

"Are  you  William  Drew?" 

"I  am,  and  you  are " 

' '  The  son  of  John  Bard.    Are  you  in  this  house  ?" 

' '  I  am ;  Bard,  listen  to  me  for  thirty  seconds " 

' '  Not  for  three.  Sally,  go  out  of  this  room  and 
through  that  door. 

There  was  a  grim  command  in  his  voice.  It 
started  her  moving  against  her  will.  She  paused 
and  looked  back  with  an  imploring  gesture. 

"Go  on, "  he  repeated. 

And  she  passed  out  of  the  door  and  stood  there, 


260  Trailin' 

a  glimmering  figure  against  the  night.  Still  there 
was  not  a  shot  fired,  though  all  those  guns  were 
trained  on  Bard. 

"You've  got  me  Drew,"  he  called,  ''but  I've 
got  you,  and  your  hirelings — all  of  you,  and  I'm 
going  to  take  you  to  hell  with  me — to  hell!" 

He  jerked  his  gun  up  and  fired,  not  at  a  man,  for 
the  bullet  struck  the  thin  chain  which  held  the 
gasoline  lamp  suspended,  struck  it  with  a  clang, 
and  it  rushed  down  to  the  table.  It  struck,  but 
not  with  the  loud  explosion  which  Bard  had  ex 
pected.  There  was  a  dull  report,  as  of  a  shot  fired 
at  a  great  distance,  the  scream  of  Sally  from  the 
door,  and  then  liquid  fire  spurted  from  the  lamp 
across  the  table,  whipped  in  a  flare  to  the  ceiling, 
and  licked  against  the  walls.  It  shot  to  all  sides 
but  it  shot  high,  and  every  man  was  down  on  his 
face. 

Anthony,  scarcely  believing  that  he  was  still 
alive,  rushed  for  the  door,  with  a  cry  of  agony 
ringing  in  his  ears  from  the  voice  beyond  the  room. 
One  man  in  all  that  crowd  was  near  enough  or  had 
the  courage  to  obey  the  master  even  to  the  utter 
most.  The  gaunt  form  of  Calamity  Ben  bl< 
the  doorway  in  front  of  Bard,  blocked  it  wit 
poised  revolver. 

"Halt!  "he  yelled. 


The  Lamp  261 

But  the  other  rushed  on.  Calamity  whipped 
down  the  gun  and  fired,  but  even  before  the  trigger 
was  pulled  he  was  sagging  toward  the  floor,  for 
Bard  had  shot  to  kill.  Over  the  prostrate  form 
of  the  cowpuncher  he  leaped,  and  into  the  night, 
where  the  white  face  of  Sally  greeted  him. 

Outside  the  red  inferno  of  that  room,  as  if  the 
taste  of  blood  had  maddened  him,  he  raised  his 
arms  and  shouted,  like  one  crying  a  wild  prayer: 
'William  Drew!  William  Drew!  Come  out  to 
me!" 

Small,  strong  hands  gripped  his  wrists  and 
turned  him  away  from  the  house 

1 '  You  fool ! ' '  cried  Sally.  ' '  Ride  for  it !  You've 
raised  your  hell  at  last — I  knew  you  would!" 

Red  light  flared  in  all  the  windows  of  the  dining- 
room;  shouts  and  groans  and  cursing  poured  out 
of  them.  Bard  turned  and  followed  her  out  toward 
the  stable  on  the  run,  and  he  heard  her  moaning 
as  she  ran:  "I  knew!  I  knew!" 

She  mounted  her  horse,  which  was  tethered  near 
the  barn.  He  chose  at  random  the  first  horse  he 
reached,  a  grey,  threw  on  his  back  the  saddle 
which  hung  from  the  peg  behind,  mounted,  and 
they  were  off  through  the  night.  No  thought,  no 
iirection ;  but  only  in  blind  speed  there  seemed  to 
)e  the  hope  of  a  salvation. 


262  Trailin' 

A  mile,  two  miles  dropped  behind  them,  and 
then  in  an  open  stretch,  for  he  had  outridden  her 
somewhat,  Anthony  reined  back,  caught  the  bridle 
of  her  horse,  and  pulled  it  down  to  a  sharp  trot. 

* '  Why  have  you  come  ? ' ' 

Their  faces  were  so  close  that  even  through  the 
night  he  could  see  the  grim  set  of  her  lips. 

"Ain't  you  raised  your  hell — the  hell  you  was 
hungry  to  raise?  Don't  you  need  help?" 

"What  I've  done  is  my  own  doing.  I'll  take  the 
burden  of  it. " 

"You'll  take  a  halter  for  it,  that's  what  you'll 
take.  The  whole  range'll  rise  for  this.  You're 
marked  already.  Everywhere  you've  gone  you've 
made  an  enemy.  They'll  be  out  to  get  you — Nash 
— Boardman — the  whole  gang. " 

"Let  'em  come.    I'd  do  this  all  over  again. " 

"Born  gunman,  eh?  Bard,  you  ain't  got  a  week 
to  live." 

It  was  fierceness ;  it  was  a  reproach  rather  than 
sorrow. 

"Then  let  me  go  my  own  way.  Why  do  you 
follow,  Sally?" 

' '  D'you  know  these  mountains  ? ' ' 

"No,  but " 

"Then  they'd  run  you  down  in  twelve  hours. 
Where'll  you  head  for?" 


The  Lamp  263 

He  said,  as  the  first  thought  entered  his  mind: 
"111  go  for  the  old  house  that  Drew  has  on  the 
other  side  of  the  range. " 

' '  That  ain't  bad.    Know  the  short  cut  ? " 

"What  cut?" 

"You  can  make  it  in  five  hours  over  one  trail. 
But  of  course  you  don't  know.  Nobody  but  old 
Dan  and  me  ever  knowed  it.  Let  go  my  bridle 
and  ride  like  hell. " 

She  jerked  the  reins  away  from  him  and  galloped 
off  at  full  speed.  He  followed. 

"Sally!  "he  called. 

But  she  kept  straight  ahead,  and  he  followed, 
shouting,  imploring  her  to  go  back.  Finally  he 
settled  to  the  chase,  resolved  on  overtaking  her. 
It  was  no  easy  task,  for  she  rode  like  a  centaur, 
and  she  knew  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NASH    STARTS   THE   FINISH 

THROUGH  the  windows  and  the  door  the  cow- 
punchers  fled  from  the  red  spurt  of  the  flames,  each 
man  for  himself,  except  Shorty  Kilrain,  who 
stooped,  gathered  the  lanky  frame  of  Calamity 
Ben  into  his  arms,  and  staggered  out  with  his 
burden.  The  great  form  of  William  Drew  loomed 
through  the  night. 

His  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Shorty,  he  cried: 
4 'Is  he  badly  burned?" 

"Shot,"  said  Kilrain  bitterly,  "by  the  tender 
foot;  done  for." 

It  was  strange  to  hear  the  big  voice  go  shrill  with 
pain. 

"Shot?    By  Anthony?    Give  him  to  me. " 

Kilrain  lowered  his  burden  to  the  ground. 

"You've  got  him  murdered.  Ain't  you  through 
with  him?  Calamity,  he  was  my  pal!" 

But  the  big  man  thrust  him  aside  and  knelt  by 
the  stricken  cowpuncher. 

264 


Nash  Starts  the  Finish         265 

He  commanded :  ' '  Gather  the  boys ;  form  a  line 
of  buckets  from  the  pump ;  fight  that  fire.  It  hasn't 
a  hold  on  the  house  yet. " 

The  habit  of  obedience  persisted  in  Kilrain. 
Under  the  glow  of  the  fire,  excited  by  the  red  light, 
the  other  man  stood  irresolute,  eager  for  action, 
but  not  knowing  what  to  do.  A  picture  came  back 
to  him  of  a  ship  labouring  in  a  storm ;  the  huddling 
men  on  the  deck;  the  mate  on  the  bridge,  shriek 
ing  his  orders  through  a  megaphone.  He  cupped 
his  hands  at  his  mouth  and  began  to  bark  orders. 

They  obeyed  on  the  run.  Some  rushed  for  the 
kitchen  and  secured  buckets;  two  manned  the  big 
pump  and  started  a  great  gush  of  water;  in  a 
moment  a  steady  stream  was  being  flung  by  the 
foremost  men  of  the  line  against  the  smoking  walls 
and  even  the  ceiling  of  the  dining-room.  So  far 
it  was  the  oil  itself,  which  had  made  most  of  the 
flame  and  smoke,  and  now,  although  the  big  table 
was  on  fire,  the  main  structure  of  the  house  was 
hardly  touched. 

They  caught  it  in  time  and  worked  with  a  cheer, 
swinging  the  buckets  from  hand  to  hand,  shouting 
as  the  flames  fell  little  by  little  until  the  floor  of 
the  room  was  awash,  the  walls  gave  back  clouds 
of  steam,  and  the  only  fire  was  that  which  smoul 
dered  along  the  ruined  table.  Even  this  went  out, 


266  Trailin' 

hissing,  at  last,  and  they  came  back  with  black 
ened,  singed  faces  to  Calamity  and  Drew. 

The  rancher  had  torn  away  the  coat  and  shirt 
of  the  wounded  man,  and  now,  with  much  labour, 
was  twisting  a  tight  bandage  around  his  chest. 
At  every  turn  Calamity  groaned  feebly.  Kilrain 
dropped  beside  his  partner,  taking  the  head  be 
tween  his  hands. 

"Calamity — pal,"  he  said,  "how'd  you  let  a 
tenderfoot,  a  damned  tenderfoot,  do  this?" 

The  other  sighed : ' '  I  dunno.  I  had  him  covered. 
I  should  have  sent  him  to  hell.  But  sure  shootin' 
is  better 'n  fast  shootin'.  He  nailed  me  fair  and 
square  while  I  was  blockin'  him  at  the  door. " 

" How  d'you  feel?" 

"Done  for,  Shorty,  but  damned  glad  that " 

His  voice  died  away  in  a  horrible  whisper  and 
bubbles  of  red  foam  rose  to  his  lips. 

"God!"  groaned  Shorty,  and  then  called  loudly, 
as  if  the  strength  of  his  voice  might  recall  the  other, 
"Calamity!" 

The  eyes  of  Calamity  rolled  up;  the  wide  lips 
twisted  over  formless  words;  there  was  no  sound 
from  his  mouth.  Someone  was  holding  a  lantern 
whose  light  fell  full  on  the  silent  struggle.  It  was 
Nash,  his  habitual  sneer  grown  more  malevolent 
than  ever. 


Nash  Starts  the  Finish         267 

"What  of  the  feller  that  done  it,  Shorty?"  he 
suggested. 

'  *  So  help  me  God, ' '  said  the  cattleman,  with 
surprising  softness,  "the  range  ain't  big  enough 
to  keep  him  away  from  me. " 

Drew,  completing  his  bandage,  said:  "That's 
enough  of  such  talk,  Nash.  Let  it  drop  there. 
Here,  Kilrain,  take  his  feet;  help  me  into  the  house 
with  him." 

They  moved  in,  the  rest  trailing  behind  like 
sheep  after  a  bell-wether,  and  it  was  astonishing 
to  see  the  care  with  which  big  Drew  handled  his 
burden,  placing  it  at  last  on  his  own  four-poster  bed. 

"The  old  man's  all  busted  up, "  said  little  Duffy 
to  Nash.  "I'd  never  of  guessed  he  was  so  fond 
of  Calamity." 

"You're  a  fool,"  answered  Nash.  "It  ain't 
Calamity  he  cares  about. " 

"Then  what  the  devil  is  it?" 

' '  I  dunno.  We're  goin'  to  see  some  queer  thing? 
around  here. " 

Drew,  having  disposed  of  the  wounded  man, 
carefully  raising  his  head  on  a  pillow,  turned  to 
the  others. 

"Who  saw  Ben  shot?" 

"I  did, "  said  Kilrain,  who  was  making  his  way 
to  the  door. 


268  Trailin' 

"Come  back  here.  Are  you  sure  you  saw  the 
shot  fired?" 

"I  seen  the  tenderfoot — damn  his  eyes! — whip 
up  his  gun  and  take  a  snap  shot  while  he  was 
runnin'  for  the  door  where  Calamity  stood." 

Nash  raised  his  lantern  high,  so  that  the  light 
fell  full  on  the  face  of  Drew.  The  rancher  was 
more^grey  than  ever. 

He  said,  with  almost  an  appeal  in  his  voice: 
"Mightn't  it  have  been  one  of  the  other  boys, 
shooting  at  random? " 

The  tone  of  Kilrain  raised  and  grew  ugly. 

"Are  you  tryin'  to  cover  the  tenderfoot,  Drew?" 

The  big  man  made  a  fierce  gesture. 

"Why  should  I  cover  him?" 

"Because  you  been  actin'  damned  queer," 
answered  Nash. 

"Ah,  you're  here  again,  Nash?  I  know  you 
hate  Bard  because  he  was  too  much  for  you." 

"He  got  the  start  of  me,  but  I'll  do  a  lot  of 
finishing." 

"Kilrain,"  called  Drew,  "you're  Calamity's 
best  friend.  Ride  for  Eldara  and  bring  back 
Dr.  Young.  Quick!  We're  going  to'  pull  Ben 
through." 

' '  Jest  a  waste  of  time, ' '  said  Nash  coolly.  ' '  He's 
got  one  foot  in  hell  already." 


Nash  Starts  the  Finish         269 

"  You've  said  too  much,  Nash.  Kilrain,  are 
you  going?" 

"Ill  stop  for  the  doctor  at  Eldara,  but  then  111 
keep  on  riding." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"NothinV 

'Til  go  with  you, "  said  Nash,  and  turned  with 
the  other. 

"Stop!"  called  Drew.  "Boys,  I  know  what 
you  have  planned;  but  let  the  law  take  care  of  this. 
Remember  that  we  were  the  aggressors  against 
young  Bard.  He  came  peaceably  into  this  house 
and  I  tried  to  hold  him  here.  What  would  you 
have  done  in  his  place?" 

"They's  a  dozen  men  know  how  peaceable  he 
is,  "  said  Nash  drily.  "Wherever  he's  gone  on  the 
range  he's  raised  hell.  He's  cut  out  for  a  killer, 
and  Glendin  in  Eldara  knows  it. " 

"111  talk  to  Glendin.  In  the  meantime  you 
fellows  keep  your  hands  off  Bard.  In  the  first 
place  because  if  you  take  the  law  into  your  own 
hands  you'll  have  me  against  you — understand?" 

Kilrain  and  Nash  glowered  at  him  a  moment, 
and  then  backed  through  the  door. 

As  they  hurried  for  the  barn  Kilrain  asked: 
"What  makes  the  chief  act  soft  to  that  hell- 
raiser?" 


270  Trailin' 

*  *  If  you  have  a  feller  cut  out  for  your  own  meat," 
answered  Nash,  "d'you  want  to  have  any  one 
else  step  in  and  take  your  meal  away?" 

''But  you  and  me,  Steve,  we'll  get  this  bird. " 

"We'll  get  Glendin  behind  us  first. " 

"Why  him?" 

' '  Play  safe.  Glendin  can  swear  us  in  as  deputies 
to — 'apprehend, '  as  he  calls  it,  this  Bard.  Appre- 
hendin'  a  feller  like  Bard  simply  means  to  shoot 
him  down  and  ask  him  to  come  along  afterward, 
see?" 

'  *  Nash,  you  got  a  great  head.  You  ought  to  be 
one  of  these  lawyers.  There  ain't  nothin'  you  can't 
find  a  way  out  of.  But  will  Glendin  do  it?" 

"He'll  do  what  I  ask  him  to  do. " 

' '  Friend  of  yours  ? ' ' 

" Better 'n  a  friend." 

"Got  something  on  him?" 

"These here  questions,  they  ain't  polite,  Shorty," 
grinned  Nash. 

"All  right.  You  do  the  leadin'  in  this  game  and 
I'll  jest  follow  suit.  But  lay  your  course  with 
nothin'  but  the  tops'ls  flyin',  because  I've  got  an 
idea  we're  goin'  to  hit  a  hell  of  a  storm  before  we 
get  back  to  port,  Steve. " 

"For  my  part,"  answered  Nash,  "I'm  gettin' 
used  to  rough  weather. " 


Nash  Starts  the  Finish         271 

They  saddled  their  horses  and  cut  across  the 
hills  straight  for  Eldara.  Kilrain  spurred  viciously, 
and  the  roan  had  hard  work  keeping  up. 

"Hold  in, "  called  Nash  after  a  time;  "save  your 
hoss,  Shorty.  This  ain't  no  short  trail.  D'you 
notice  the  hosses  when  we  was  in  the  barn?" 

"Nope." 

"Bard  took  Duffy's  grey,  and  the  grey  can  go 
like  the  devil.  Hoss-lif tin*  ?  That's  another  little 
mark  on  Bard's  score. " 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
TO  "APPREHEND"  A  MAN 

As  if  to  make  up  for  its  silence  of  the  blast  when 
the  two  reached  it  late  the  night  before,  Eldara 
was  going  full  that  evening.  Kilrain  went  straight 
for  Doc  Young,  to  bring  him  later  to  join  Nash  at 
the  house  of  Deputy  Glendin. 

The  front  of  the  deputy's  house  was  utterly 
dark,  but  Nash,  unabashed,  knocked  loudly  on 
the  door,  and  went  immediately  to  the  rear  of  the 
place.  He  was  in  time  to  see  a  light  wink  out  at 
an  upper  window  of  the  two-story  shack.  He, 
slipped  back,  chuckling,  among  the  trees,  and 
waited  until  the  back  door  slammed  and  a  dark 
figure  ran  noiselessly  down  the  steps  and  out  into 
the  night.  Then  he  returned,  still  chuckling,  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  and  banged  again  on  the 
door. 

A  window  above  him  raised  at  length  and  a 
drawling  voice,  apparently  overcome  with  sleep, 
called  down:  "What's  up  in  Eldara?" 

272 


To  "  Apprehend  "  a  Man      273 

Nash  answered :  '  *  Everything's  wrong.  Deputy 
Glendin,  he  sits  up  in  a  back  room  playin'  poker 
and  hittin'  the  redeye.  No  wonder  Eldara's 
goin'tohell!" 

A  muffled  cursing  rolled  down  to  the  cow- 
puncher,  and  then  a  sharp  challenge:  ''Who's 
there?" 

' '  Nash,  you  blockhead ! ' ' 

"Nash!"  cried  a  relieved  voice,  "come  in;  con 
found  you.  I  thought — no  matter  what  I  thought. 
Come  in!" 

Nash  opened  the  door  and  went  up  the  stairs. 
The  deputy  met  him,  clad  in  a  bathrobe  and  carry 
ing  a  lamp.  Under  the  bathrobe  he  was  fully 
dressed. 

"Thought  your  game  was  called,  eh?"  grinned 
the  cattleman. 

"Sure.  I  had  a  tidy  little  thing  in  black-jack 
running  and  was  pulling  in  the  iron  boys,  one 
after  another.  Why  didn't  you  tip  me  off?  You 
could  have  sat  in  with  us." 

"Nope;  I'm  here  on  business." 

"Let's  have  it." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  back  room  and  placed  the 
lamp  on  a  table  littered  with  cards  and  a  black 
bottle  looming  in  the  centre. 

"Drink?" 

18 


274  Trailin' 


"Nope.    I  said  I  came  on  business." 

"What  kind?" 

"Bard." 

"I  thought  so." 

' '  I  want  a  posse. ' ' 

"What 'she  done?" 

"Killed  Calamity  Ben  at  Drew's  place,  started  a 
.  fire  that  near  burned  the  house,  and  lifted  Duffy's 
hoss." 

Glendin  whistled  softly. 

"Nice  little  start." 

"Sure;  and  it's  just  a  beginnin'  for  this  Bard." 

"I'll  go  out  to  Drew's  place  and  see  what  he's 
done." 

1 '  And  then  start  after  him  with  a  gang  ? ' ' 

"Sure." 

"By  that  time  he'll  be  a  thousand  miles  away. " 

"Well?" 

"I'm  running  this  little  party.  Let  me  get  a 
gang  together;  you  can  swear  'em  in  and  put 
me  in  charge.  I'll  guarantee  to  get  him  before 
morning." 

Glendin  shook  his  head. 

"It  ain't  legal,  Steve.    You  know  that." 

"The  hell  with  legality." 

"That's  what  you  say;  but  I  got  to  hold  my 
job."  \ 


To  "  Apprehend  "  a  Man       275 

"You'll  do  your  part  by  goin'  to  Drew's  place 
with  Doc  Young.  He'll  be  here  with  Shorty  Kil- 
rain  in  a  minute." 

"And  let  you  go  after  Bard?" 

"Right." 

"Par's  I  know,  you  may  jest  shoot  him  down 
and  then  come  back  and  say  you  done  it  because 
he  resisted  arrest." 

"Well?" 

"You  admit  that's  what  you  want,  Steve?" 

"Absolute." 

"Well,  partner,  it  can't  be  done.  That  ain't 
apprehendin'  a  man.  It's  jest  plain  murder." 

"D'you  think  you  could  ever  catch  that  bird 
alive?" 

"Dunno,  I'd  try." 

"Never  in  a  thousand  years." 

"He  don't  know  the  country.  He'll  travel  in  a 
circle  and  I'll  ride  him  down." 

"He's  got  somebody  with  him  that  knows  the 
country  better'n  you  or  me." 

"Who?" 

The  face  of  Nash  twisted  into  an  ugly  grimace. 

"Sally  Fortune." 

"The  hell!" 

"It  is;  but  it's  true." 

"It  ain't  possible.    Sally  ain't  the  kind  to  make 


276  Trailin' 

a  fool  of  herself  about  any  man,  let  alone  a  gun- 
fighter." 

"That's  what  I  thought,  but  I  seen  her  back  up 
this  Bard  ag'in'  a  roomful  of  men.  And  she'll 
keep  on  backin'  him  till  he's  got  his  toes  turned 
up." 

"That's  another  reason  for  you  to  get  Bard,  eh? 
Well,  I  can't  send  you  after  him,  Nash.  That's 
final." 

"Not  a  bit.  I  know  too  much  about  you, 
Glendin." 

The  glance  of  the  other  raised  slowly,  fixed  on 
Nash,  and  then  lowered  to  the  floor.  He  produced 
papers  and  Durham,  rolled  and  lighted  his  cig 
arette,  and  inhaled  a  long  puff. 

"So  that's  the  game,  Steve?" 

"I  hate  to  doit." 

"Let  that  go.    You'll  run  the  limit  on  this?" 

"Listen,  Glendin.  I've  got  to  get  this  Bard. 
He's  out-ridden  me,  out-shot  me,  out-gamed  me, 
out-lucked  me,  out-guessed  me — and  taken  Sally. 
He's  mine.  He  b'longs  all  to  me.  D'you  see 
that?" 

"I'm  only  seein'  one  thing  just  now." 

"I  know.  You  think  I'm  double-crossin'  you. 
Maybe  I  am,  but  I'm  desperate,  Glendin." 

' '  After  all, "  mused  the  deputy, ' '  you'd  be  simply 


To  "  Apprehend  "  a  Man       277 

doin'  work  I'd  have  to  do  later.  You're  right 
about  this  Bard.  He'll  never  be  taken  alive." 

"Good  ol'  Glendin.  I  knew  you'd  see  light. 
I'll  go  out  and  get  the  boys  I  want  in  ten  minutes. 
Wait  here.  Shorty  and  Doc  Young  will  come  in  a 
minute.  One  thing  more :  when  you  get  to  Drew's 
place  you'll  find  him  actin'  queer." 

4 'What  about?" 

"I  dunno  why.  It's  a  bad  mess.  You  see,  he's 
after  this  Bard  himself,  the  way  I  figure  it,  and  he 
wants  him  left  alone.  He'd  raise  hell  if  he  knew  a 
posse  was  after  the  tenderfoot." 

"Drew's  a  bad  one  to  get  against  me." 

"I  know.     You  think  I'm  double-crossin' ? " 

"I'll  do  it.  But  this  squares  all  scores  between 
us,  Steve?" 

' '  Right.  It  leaves  the  debt  on  my  side,  and  you 
know  I've  never  dodged  an  I.  O.  U.  Drew  may 
talk  queer.  He'll  tell  you  that  Bard  done  all  that 
work  in  self-defence." 

"Did  he?" 

"The  point  is  he  killed  a  man  and  stole  a  hoss. 
No  matter  what  comes  of  it,  he's  got  to  be  arrested, 
don't  he?" 

1 '  And  shot  down  while  '  resistin'  arrest '  ?  Steve, 
I'd  hate  to  have  you  out  for  me  like  this." 

"But  you  won't  listen  to  Drew?" 


278  Trailin' 

''Not  this  one  time.  But,  Lord,  man,  I  hate  to 
face  him  if  he's  on  the  warpath.  Who'll  you  take 
with  you?" 

4 'Shorty,  of  course.  He  was  Calamity  Ben's 
pal.  The  rest  will  be — don't  laugh — Butch  Conk- 
lin  and  his  gang." 

"Butch!" 

1 '  Hold  yourself  together.  That's  what  I  mean — 
Butch  Conklin." 

"After  you  dropped  him  the  other  night?" 

"Self-defence,  and  he  knows  it.  I  can  find 
Butch,  and  I  can  make  him  go  with  me.  Besides, 
he's  out  for  Bard  himself." 

The  deputy  said  with  much  meaning : ' '  You  can 
do  a  lot  of  queer  things,  Nash." 

"Forget  it,  Glendin." 

"I  will  for  a  while.  D'you  really  think  I  can 
let  you  take  out  Butch  and  his  gunmen  ag'in' 
Bard?  Why,  they're  ten  times  worse'n  the 
tenderfoot." 

"Maybe,  but  there's  nothin'  proved  ag'in'  'em 
— nothin'  but  a  bit  of  cattle-liftin',  maybe,  and 
things  like  that.  The  point  is,  they're  all  hard 
men,  and  with  'em  along  I  can't  help  but  get 
Bard." 

"Murder  ain't  proved  on  Butch  and  his  men, 
but  it  will  be  before  long." 


To  "  Apprehend  "  a  Man       279 

"Wait  till  it's  proved.  In  the  meantime  use 
'em  all." 

"You've  a  long  head,  Nash." 

"Glendin,  I'm  makin'  the  biggest  play  of  my 
life.  I'm  off  to  find  Butch.  You'll  stand  firm  with 
Drew?" 

"I  won't  hear  a  word  he  says." 

"S'long!     Be  back  in  ten  minutes.     Wait  for 


me." 


He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Even  before  the 
ten  minutes  had  elapsed  he  was  back,  and  behind 
followed  a  crew  of  heavy  thumping  boots  up  the 
stairs  of  Glendin's  house  and  into  the  room  where 
he  sat  with  Dr.  Young  and  Shorty  Kilrain.  They 
rose,  but  not  from  respect,  when  Nash  entered  with 
Conklin  and  his  four  ill-famed  followers  behind. 

The  soiled  bandage  on  the  head  of  Butch  was 
far  too  thick  to  allow  his  hat  to  sit  in  its  normal 
position.  It  was  perched  high  on  top,  and  secured 
in  place  by  a  bit  of  string  which  passed  from  side 
to  side  under  the  chin.  Behind  him  came  Lovel, 
an  almost  albino  type  with  straw-coloured  hair 
and  eyes  bleached  and  passionless;  the  vacuous 
smile  was  never  gone  from  his  lips. 

More  feared  and  more  hated  than  Conklin 
himself  was  Isaacs.  The  latter,  always  fastidious, 
wore  a  blue-striped  vest,  without  a  coat  to  obscure 


280  Trailin' 

it,  and  about  his  throat  was  knotted  a  flaming 
vermilion  necktie,  fastened  in  place  with  a  diamond 
stickpin — obviously  the  spoil  of  some  recent  rob 
bery.  Glendin,  watching,  ground  his  teeth. 

McNamara  followed.  He  had  been  a  squatter, 
but  his  family  had  died  of  a  fever,  and  McNa- 
mara's  mind  had  been  unsettled  ever  since ;  whisky 
had  finished  the  work  of  sending  him  on  the  down 
ward  path  with  Conklin's  little  crew  of  despera 
does.  Men  shrank  from  facing  those  too-bright, 
wandering  eyes,  yet  it  was  from  pity  almost  as 
much  as  horror. 

Finally  came  Ufert.  He  was  merely  a  round- 
faced  boy  of  nineteen,  proud  of  the  distinguished 
bad  company  he  kept.  He  was  that  weak-minded 
type  which  is  only  strong  when  it  becomes  wholly 
evil.  With  a  different  leadership  he  would  have 
become  simply  a  tobacco-chewing  hanger-on  at 
cross-roads  saloons  and  general  merchandise  stores. 
As  it  was,  feeling  dignified  by  the  brotherhood  of 
crime  into  which  he  had  been  admitted  as  a  full 
member,  and  eager  to  prove  his  qualifications,  he 
was  as  dangerous  as  any  member  of  the  crew. 

The  three  men  who  were  already  in  the  room  had 
been  prepared  by  Glendin  for  this  new  arrival,  but 
the  fact  was  almost  too  much  for  their  credence. 
Consequently  they  rose,  and  Dr.  Young  muttered 


To  "  Apprehend  "  a  Man       281 

at  the  ear  of  Glendin.  "Is  it  possible,  Deputy 
Glendin,  that  you're  going  to  use  these  fellows?" 

"A  thief  to  catch  a  thief,"  whispered  Glendin 
in  reply. 

He  said  aloud:  "Butch,  I've  been  looking  for 
you  for  a  long  time,  but  I  really  never  expected  to 
see  you  quite  as  close  as  this." 

"You've  said  it,"  grinned  Butch,  "I  ain't  been 
watchin'  for  you  real  close,  but  now  that  I  see  you, 
you  look  more  or  less  like  a  man  should  look. 
H'wareye,  Glendin?" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  the  deputy,  shifting 
his  position,  seemed  to  overlook  the  grimy  prof 
fered  palm. 

"You  fellows  know  that  you're  wanted  by  the 
law,"  he  said,  frowning  on  them. 

A  grim  meaning  rose  in  the  vacuous  eye  of 
Lovel;  Isaacs  caressed  his  diamond  pin,  smiling 
in  a  sickly  fashion;  McNamara's  wandering  stare 
fixed  and  grew  unhumanly  bright;  Ufert  openly 
dropped  his  hand  on  his  gun-butt  and  stood 
sullenly  defiant. 

''You  know  that  you're  wanted,  and  you  know 
why, "  went  on  Glendin,  "but  I've  decided  to  give 
you  a  chance  to  prove  that  you're  white  men  and 
useful  citizens.  Nash  has  already  told  you  what 
we  want.  It's  work  for  seven  men  agaStot.  one, 


282  Trailin' 

but  that  one  man  is  apt  to  give  you  all  plenty  to 
do.  If  you  are — successful" — he  stammered  a 
little  over  the  right  word — "what  you  have  done 
in  the  past  will  be  forgotten.  Hold  up  your  right 
hands  and  repeat  after  me." 

And  they  repeated  the  oath  after  him  in  a 
broken,  drawling  chorus,  stumbling  over  the  for 
mal,  legal  phraseology. 

He  ended,  and  then :  ' '  Nash,  you're  in  charge  of 
the  gang.  Do  what  you  want  to  with  them,  and 
remember  that  you're  to  get  Bard  back  in  town 
unharmed — if  possible." 

Butch  Conklin  smiled,  and  the  same  smile 
spread  grimly  from  face  to  face  among  the  gang. 
Evidently  this  point  had  already  been  elucidated 
to  them  by  Nash,  who  now  mustered  them  out  of 
the  house  and  assembled  them  on  their  horses  in 
the  street  below. 

"Which  way  do  we  travel?"  asked  Shorty  Kil- 
rain,  reining  close  beside  the  leader,  as  though  he 
were  anxious  to  disestablish  any  relationship  with 
the  rest  of  the  party. 

"Two  ways,"  answered  Nash.  "Of  course  I 
don't  know  what  way  Bard  headed,  because  he's 
got  the  girl  with  him,  but  I  figure  it  this  way :  if  a 
tenderfoot  knows  any  part  of  the  range  at  all,  he'll 
go  in  that  direction  after  he's  in  trouble.  I've 


To  "Apprehend"  a  Man       283 

seen  it  work  out  before.  So  I  think  that  Bard 
may  have  ridden  straight  for  the  old  Drew  place 
on  the  other  side  of  the  range.  I  know  a  short  cut 
over  the  hills;  we  can  reach  there  by  morning. 
Kilrain,  you'll  go  there  with  me. 

"It  may  be  that  Bard  will  go  near  the  old  place, 
but  not  right  to  it.  Chances  may  be  good  that 
he'll  put  up  at  some  place  near  the  old  ranchhouse, 
but  not  right  on  the  spot.  Jerry  Wood,  he's  got 
a  house  about  lour  or  five  miles  to  the  north  of 
Drew's  old  ranch.  Butch,  you  take  your  men  and 
ride  for  Wood's  place.  Then  switch  south  and 
ride  for  Partridge's  store;  if  we  miss  him  at  Drew's 
old  house  we'll  go  on  and  join  you  at  Partridge's 
store  and  then  double  back.  He'll  be  somewhere 
inside  that  circle  and  Eldara,  you  can  lay  to  that. 
Now,  boys,  are  your  hosses  fresh?" 

They  were. 

"Then  ride,  and  don't  spare  the  spurs.  Hoss 
flesh  is  cheaper 'n  your  own  hides. " 

The  cavalcade  separated  and  galloped  in  two 
directions  through  the  town  of  Eldara. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

NOTHING    NEW 

GLENDIN  and  Dr.  Young  struck  out  for  the 
ranch  of  William  Drew,  but  they  held  a  moderate 
pace,  and  it  was  already  grey  dawn  before  they 
arrived;  yet  even  at  that  hour  several  windows  of 
the  house  were  lighted.  They  were  led  directly  to 
Drew's  room. 

The  big  man  welcomed  them  at  the  door  with  a 
hand  raised  for  silence.  He  seemed  to  have  aged 
greatly  during  the  night,  but  between  the  black 
shadows  beneath  and  the  shaggy  brows  above,  his 
eyes  gleamed  more  brightly  than  ever.  About  his 
mouth  the  lines  of  resolution  were  worn  deep  by 
his  vigil. 

"He  seems  to  be  sleeping  rather  well — though 
you  hear  his  breathing?" 

It  was  a  soft,  but  ominously  rattling  sound. 

"Through  the  lungs, "  said  the  doctor  instantly. 

The  cowpuncher  was  completely  covered,  ex 
cept  for  his  head  and  feet.  On  the  latter,  oddly 

284 


Nothing  New  285 

enough,  were  still  his  grimy  boots,  blackening  the 
white  sheets  on  which  they  rested. 

' '  I  tried  to  work  them  off — you  see  the  laces  are 
untied,"  explained  Drew,  "but  the  poor  fellow 
recovered  consciousness  at  once,  and  struggled  to 
get  his  feet  free.  He  said  that  he  wants  to  die  with 
his  boots  on." 

"You  tried  his  pulse  and  his  temperature?" 
whispered  the  doctor. 

"Yes.  The  temperature  is  not  much  above 
normal,  the  pulse  is  extremely  rapid  and  very 
faint.  Is  that  a  bad  sign  ? " 

"Very  bad." 

Drew  winced  and  caught  his  breath  so  sharply 
that  the  others  stared  at  him.  It  might  have  been 
thought  that  he  had  just  heard  his  own  death 
sentence  pronounced. 

He  explained:  "Ben  has  been  with  me  a  number 
of  years.  It  breaks  me  up  to  think  of  losing  him 
like  this. " 

The  doctor  took  the  pulse  of  Calamity  with 
lightly  touching  fingers  that  did  not  waken  the 
sleeper;  then  he  felt  with  equal  caution  the  fore 
head  of  Ben. 

"Well?"  asked  Drew  eagerly. 

"The  chances  are  about  one  out  of  ten. " 

It  drew  a  groan  from  the  rancher. 


286  Trailin' 

"But  there  is  still  some  hope. " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  carefully  un 
wound  the  bandages.     He  examined  the  wound 
with  care,  and  then  made  a  dressing,  and  recovered 
the  little  purple  spot,  so  small  that  a  five-cent 
piece  would  have  covered  it. 

"Tell  me!"  demanded  Drew,  as  Young  turned 
at  length. 

' '  The  bullet  passed  right  through  the  body,  eh  ? " 

"Yes." 

' '  He  ought  to  have  been  dead  hours  ago.  I  can't 
understand  it.  But  since  he's  still  alive  we'll  go 
on  hoping." 

' '  Hope  ? ' '  whispered  Drew . 

It  was  as  if  he  had  received  the  promise  of  heaven, 
such  brightness  fell  across  his  haggard  face. 

"There's  no  use  attempting  to  explain,"  an 
swered  Young.  "An  ordinary  man  would  have 
died  almost  instantly,  but  the  lungs  of  some  of 
these  rangers  seem  to  be  lined  with  leather.  I 
suppose  they  are  fairly  embalmed  with  excessive 
cigarette  smoking.  The  constant  work  in  the  open 
air  toughens  them  wonderfully.  As  I  said,  the 
chances  are  about  one  out  of  ten,  but  I'm  only 
astonished  that  there  is  any  chance  at  all. " 

"Doctor,  I'll  make  you  rich  for  this!" 

"My  dear  sir,  I've  done  nothing;  it  has  been 


Nothing  New  287 

your  instant  care  that  saved  him — as  far  as  he  is 
saved.  I'll  tell  you  what  to  continue  doing  for 
him;  in  half  an  hour  I  must  leave." 

Drew  smiled  faintly. 

"Not  till  he's  well  or  dead,  doctor. " 

"I  didn't  quite  catch  that. " 

"You  won't  leave  the  room,  Young,  till  this 
man  is  dead  or  on  the  way  to  recovery. " 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Drew,  I  have  patients 
who " 

' '  I  tell  you,  there  is  no  one  else.  Until  a  decision 
comes  in  this  case  your  world  is  bounded  by  the 
four  walls  of  this  room.  That's  final.  " 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  would  attempt " 

"Anything  is  possible  with  me.  Make  up  your 
mind.  You  shall  not  leave  this  man  till  you've 
done  all  that's  humanly  possible  for  him/' 

"Mr.  Drew,  I  appreciate  your  anxiety,  but  this 
is  stepping  too  far.  I  have  an  officer  of  the  law 
with  me " 

"Better  do  what  he  wants,  Doc,"  said  Glendin 
uneasily. 

"Don't  mouth  words,"  ordered  Drew  sternly. 
"There  lies  your  sick  man.  Get  to  work.  In  this 
I'm  as  unalterable  as  the  rocks." 

"The  bill  will  be  large,"  said  Young  sullenly, 
for  he  began  to  see  that  it  was  as  futile  to  resist 


288  Trailin' 

the  grey  giant  as  it  would  have  been  to  attempt  to 
stop  the  progress  of  a  landslide. 

"I'll  pay  you  double  what  you  wish  to  charge/' 

"Does  this  man's  life  mean  so  much  to  you?" 

"A  priceless  thing.  If  you  save  him,  you  take 
the  burden  of  murder  off  the  soul  of  another." 

"I'll  do  what  lean." 

"I  know  you  will." 

He  laid  the  broad  hand  on  Young's  shoulder. 

"Doctor,  you  must  do  more  than  you  can;  you 
must  accomplish  the  impossible;  I  tell  you,  it  is 
impossible  for  this  man  to  die;  he  must  live!" 

He  turned  to  Glendin. 

"I  suppose  you  want  the  details  of  what  hap 
pened  here?" 

"Right." 

"Follow  me.  Doctor,  I'll  be  gone  only  a 
moment." 

He  led  the  way  into  an  adjoining  room,  and 
lighted  a  lamp.  The  sudden  flare  cast  deep 
shadows  on  the  face  leaning  above,  and  Glendin 
started.  For  the  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  seeing  a  face  which  had  looked  on  hell  and 
lived  to  speak  of  it. 

"Mr.  Drew,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  hit  the 
hay  yourself;  you  look  pretty  badly  done  up." 

The  other  looked  up  with  a  singular  smile,  clench- 


Nothing  New  289 

ing  and  unclenching  his  fingers  as  if  he  strove  to 
relax  muscles  which  had  been  tense  for  hours. 

"Glendin,  the  surface  of  my  strength  has  not 
been  scratched  ;  I  could  keep  going  every  hour  for 
ten  days  if  it  would  save  the  life  of  the  poor  fellow 
who  lies  in  there." 

He  took  a  long  breath. 

"Now,  then,  let's  get  after  this  business.  I'll 
tell  you  the  naked  facts.  Anthony  Bard  was  ap 
proaching  my  house  yesterday  and  word  of  his 
coming  was  brought  to  me.  For  reasons  of  my  own 
it  was  necessary  that  I  should  detain  him  here  for 
an  uncertain  length  of  time.  For  other  reasons  it 
was  necessary  that  I  go  to  any  length  to  accom 
plish  my  ends. 

"I  had  another  man  —  Lawlor,  who  looks  some 
thing  like  me  —  take  my  place  in  the  eyes  of 
Bard.  But  Bard  grew  suspicious  of  the  deception. 
Finally  a  girl  entered  and  called  Lawlor  by  name, 
as  they  were  sitting  at  the  table  with  all  the  men 
around  them.  Bard  rose  at  once  with  a  gun  in 
his  hand. 

"Put  yourself  in  his  place.  He  found  that  he 
had  been  deceived,  he  knew  that  he  was  surrounded 
by  armed  men,  he  must  have  felt  like  a  cornered 
rat.  He  drew  his  gun  and  started  for  the  door, 
warning  the  others  that  he  meant  to  go  the  limit 


19 


290  Trailin' 

in  order  to  get  free.  Mind  you,  it  was  no  sudden 
gun-play. 

"Then  I  ordered  the  men  to  keep  him  at  all 
costs  within  the  room.  He  saw  that  they  were 
prepared  to  obey  me,  and  then  he  took  a  desperate 
chance  and  shot  down  the  gasoline  lamp  which 
hung  over  the  table.  In  the  explosion  and  fire 
which  resulted  he  made  for  the  door.  One  man 
blocked  the  way,  levelled  a  revolver  at  him,  and 
then  Bard  shot  in  self-defence  and  downed  Ca 
lamity  Ben.  I  ask  you,  Glendin,  is  that  self- 
defence?" 

The  other  drummed  his  finger-tips  nervously 
against  his  chin;  he  was  thinking  hard,  and  every 
thought  was  of  Steve  Nash. 

' '  So  far,  all  right.  I  ain't  askin'  your  reasons  for 
doin'  some  pretty  queer  things,  Mr.  Drew." 

"I'll  stand  every  penalty  of  the  law,  sir.  I  only 
ask  that  you  see  that  punishment  falls  where  it  is 
deserved  only.  The  case  is  clear.  Bard  acted  in 
self-defence." 

Glendin  was  desperate. 

He  said  at  length:  "When  a  man's  tried  in 
court  they  bring  up  his  past  career.  This  feller 
Bard  has  gone  along  the  range  raisin'  a  different 
brand  of  hell  everywhere  he  went.  He  had  a  run- 
in  with  two  gunmen,  Ferguson  and  Conklin.  He 


Nothing  New  291 

had  Eldara  within  an  ace  of  a  riot  the  first  night 
he  hit  the  town.  Mr.  Drew,  that  chap  looks  the 
part  of  a  killer;  he  acts  the  part  of  a  killer;  and  by 
God,  he  is  a  killer." 

"  You  seem  to  have  come  with  your  mind  already 
made  up,  Glendin,"  said  the  rancher  coldly. 

"Not  a  bit.  But  go  through  the  whole  town  or 
Eldara  and  ask  the  boys  what  they  think  of  this 
tenderfoot.  They  feel  so  strong  that  if  he  was 
jailed  they'd  lynch  him." 

Drew  raised  a  clenched  fist  and  then  let  his  arm 
fall  suddenly  limp  at  his  side. 

"Then  surely  he  must  not  be  jailed." 

"Want  me  to  let  him  wander  around  loose  and 
kill  another  man — in  self-defence?" 

"I  want  you  to  use  reason — and  mercy, 
Glendin! 

"From  what  I've  heard,  you  ain't  the  man  to 
talk  of  mercy,  Mr.  Drew." 

The  other,  as  if  he  had  received  a  stunning  blow, 
slipped  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
It  was  a  long  moment  before  he  could  speak,  and 
when  his  hands  were  lowered,  Glendin  winced  at 
what  he  saw  in  the  other's  face. 

"God  knows  I'm  not,"  said  Drew. 

"Suppose  we  let  the  shootin'  of  Calamity  go. 
What  of  hoss-liftin',  sir?" 


Trailin 


"Horse  stealing?  Impossible!  Anthony  —  he 
could  not  be  guilty  of  it  !  " 

"Ask  your  man  Duffy.  Bard's  ridin'  Duffy's 
grey  right  now." 

"But  Duffy  will  press  no  claim,"  said  the 
rancher  eagerly.  "  I'll  see  to  that.  I  '11  pay  him  ten 
times  the  value  of  his  horse.  Glendin,  you  can't 
punish  a  man  for  a  theft  of  which  Duffy  will  not 
complain." 

"Drew,  you  know  what  the  boys  on  the  range 
think  of  a  hoss  thief.  It  ain't  the  price  of  what  they 
steal;  it's  the  low-down  soul  of  the  dog  that  would 
steal  it.  It  ain't  the  money.  But  what's  a  man 
without  a  hoss  on  the  range  ?  Suppose  his  hoss  is 
stole  while  he's  hundred  miles  from  nowhere? 
What  does  it  mean?  You  know;  it  means  dyin' 
of  thirst  and  goin'  through  a  hundred  hells  before 
the  finish.  I  say  shootin'  a  man  is  no  thin'  com 
pared  with  stealin'  a  hoss.  A  man  that'll  steal  a 
hoss  will  shoot  his  own  brother;  that's  what  he'll 
do.  But  I  don't  need  to  tell  you.  You  know  it 
better'n  me.  What  was  it  you  done  with  your 
own  hands  to  Louis  Borgen,  the  hoss-rustler,  back 
ten  years  ago?" 

A  dead  voice  answered  Glendin  :  '  '  What  has  set 
you  on  the  trail  of  Bard?" 

"His  own  wrong  doin'.  " 


Nothing  New  293 

The  rancher  waved  a  hand  of  careless  dismissal. 

"I  know  you,  Glendin,"  he  said. 

The  deputy  stirred  in  his  chair,  and  then  cleared 
his  throat. 

He  said  in  a  rising  tone:  "What  d'you  know?" 

"I  don't  think  you  really  care  to  hear  it.  To 
put  it  lightly,  Glendin,  you've  done  many  things 
for  money.  I  don't  accuse  you  of  them.  But  if 
you  want  to  do  one  thing  more,  you  can  make  more 
money  at  a  stroke  than  you've  made  in  all  the 
rest." 

With  all  his  soul  the  deputy  was  cursing  Nash, 
but  now  the  thing  was  done,  and  he  must  see  it 
through. 

He  rose  glowering  on  Drew. 

"I've  stood  a  pile  already  from  you;  this  is  one 
beyond  the  limit.  Bribery  ain't  my  way,  Drew, 
no  matter  what  I've  done  before." 

"Is  it  war,  then?" 

And  Glendin  answered,  forcing  his  tone  into 
fierceness:  "Anything  you  want — any  way  you 
want  it!" 

"Glendin, "  said  the  other  with  a  sudden  lower 
ing  of  his  voice,  "has  some  other  man  been  talking 
to  you?" 

"Who?    Me?    Certainly  not." 

"Don't  lie." 


294  Trailin' 

"Drew,  rein  up.  They's  one  thing  no  man  can 
say  to  me  and  get  away  with  it." 

"I  tell  you,  man,  I'm  holding  myself  in  harder 
than  I've  ever  done  before.  Answer  me!" 

He  did  not  even  rise,  but  Glendin,  his  hand 
twitching  close  to  the  butt  of  his  gun,  moved  step 
by  step  away  from  those  keen  eyes. 

"Answer  me!" 

"Nash;  he's  been  to  Eldara.  " 

' '  I  might  have  known.    He  told  you  about  this  ?' ' 

"Yes." 

"And  you're  going  the  full  limit  of  your  power 
against  Bard?" 

"I'll  do  nothin'  that  ain't  been  done  by  others 
before  me." 

"Glendin,  there  have  been  cowardly  legal  mur 
ders  before.  Tell  me  at  least  that  you  will  not 
send  a  posse  to  'apprehend'  Bard  until  it's 
learned  whether  or  not  Ben  will  die — and  whether 
or  not  Duffy  will  press  the  charge  of  horse 
stealing." 

Glendin  was  at  the  door.  He  fumbled  behind 
him,  found  the  knob,  and  swung  it  open. 

"If  you  double-cross  me,"  said  Drew,  "all  that 
I've  ever  done  to  any  man  before  will  be  nothing 
to  what  I'll  do  to  you,  Glendin. " 

And  the  deputy  cried,  his  voice  gone  shrill  and 


Nothing  New  295 

high,  "I  ain't  done  nothin'  that  ain't  been  done 
before!" 

And  he  vanished  through  the  doorway.  Drew 
followed  and  looked  after  the  deputy,  who  galloped 
like  a  fugitive  over  the  hills. 

"Shall  I  follow  him?"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
but  a  faint  groan  reached  him  from  the  bedroom. 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  back  to  Calamity 
Ben  and  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

CRITICISM 

AFTER  the  first  burst  of  speed,  Bard  resigned 
himself  to  following  Sally,  knowing  that  he  could 
never  catch  her,  first  because  her  horse  carried  a 
burden  so  much  lighter  than  his  own,  but  above 
all  because  the  girl  seemed  to  know  every  rock  and 
twist  in  the  trail,  and  rode  as  courageously  through 
the  night  as  if  it  had  been  broad  day. 

She  was  following  a  course  as  straight  as  a  crow's 
flight  between  the  ranch  of  Drew  and  his  old  place, 
a  desperate  trail  that  veered  and  twisted  up  the 
side  of  the  mountain  and  then  lurched  headlong 
down  on  the  farther  side  of  the  crest.  Half  a  dozen 
times  Anthony  checked  his  horse  and  shook  his 
head  at  the  trail,  but  always  the  figure  of  the  girl, 
glimmering  through  the  dusk  ahead,  challenged 
and  drove  him  on. 

Out  of  the  sharp  descent  of  the  downward  trail 
they  broke  suddenly  onto  the  comparatively 
smooth  floor  of  the  valley,  and  he  followed  her  at  a 

296 


Criticism  297 

gallop  which  ended  in  front  of  the  old  house  of 
Drew.  They  had  been  far  less  than  five  hours  on 
the  way,  yet  his  long  detour  to  the  south  had  given 
him  three  days  of  hard  riding  to  cover  the  same 
points.  His  desire  to  meet  Logan  again  became 
almost  a  passion.  He  swung  to  the  ground,  and 
advanced  to  Sally  with  his  hands  outstretched. 

"You've  shown  me  the  short  cut,  all  right, "  he 
said,  "and  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  Sally. 
So-long,  and  good  luck  to  you. " 

She  disregarded  his  extended  hand. 

"Want  me  to  leave  you  here,  Bard?" 

"You  certainly  can't  stay. " 

She  slipped  from  her  horse  and  jerked  the  reins 
over  its  head.  In  another  moment  she  had  untied 
the  cinch  and  drawn  off  the  saddle.  She  held  its 
weight  easily  on  one  forearm.  Actions,  after  all, 
are  more  eloquent  than  words. 

"I  suppose, "  he  said  gloomily,  "that  if  I'd  asked 
you  to  stay  you'd  have  ridden  off  at  once?" 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and  he 
strained  his  eyes  to  read  her  expression  through 
the  dark.  At  length  she  laughed  with  a  new  note 
in  her  voice  that  drew  her  strangely  close  to  him. 
During  the  long  ride  he  had  come  to  feel  toward 
her  as  toward  another  man,  as  strong  as  himself, 
almost,  as  fine  a  horseman,  and  much  surer  of 


298  Trailin' 

herself  on  that  wild  trail ;  but  now  the  laughter  in 
an  instant  rubbed  all  this  away.  It  was  rather 
low,  and  with  a  throaty  quality  of  richness.  The 
pulse  of  the  sound  was  like  a  light  finger  tapping 
some  marvellously  sensitive  chord  within  him. 

"D'you  think  that?"  she  said,  and  went  directly 
through  the  door  of  the  house. 

He  heard  the  crazy  floor  creak  beneath  her 
weight ;  the  saddle  dropped  with  a  thump ;  a  match 
scratched  and  a  flight  of  shadows  shook  across  the 
doorway.  The  light  did  not  serve  to  make  the 
room  visible ;  it  fell  wholly  upon  his  own  mind  and 
troubled  him  like  the  waves  which  spread  from  the 
dropping  of  the  smallest  pebble  and  lap  against 
the  last  shores  of  a  pool.  Dumfounded  by  her 
casual  surety,  he  remained  another  moment  with 
the  rein  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm. 

Finally  he  decided  to  mount  as  silently  as 
possible  and  ride  off  through  the  night  away  from 
her.  The  consequences  to  her  reputation  if  they 
spent  the  night  so  closely  together  was  one  reason ; 
a  more  selfish  and  more  moving  one  was  the  trouble 
which  she  gave  him.  The  finding  and  disposing  of 
Drew  should  be  the  one  thing  to  occupy  his 
thoughts,  but  the  laughter  of  the  girl  the  moment 
before  had  suddenly  obsessed  him,  wiped  out  the 
rest  of  the  world,  enmeshed  them  hopelessly  to- 


Criticism  299 

gether  in  the  solemn  net  of  the  night,  the  silence. 
He  resented  it ;  in  a  vague  way  he  was  angry  with 
Sally  Fortune. 

His  foot  was  in  the  stirrup  when  it  occurred  to 
him  that  no  matter  how  softly  he  withdrew  she 
would  know  and  follow  him.  It  seemed  to  An 
thony  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  not 
alone.  In  other  days  social  bonds  had  fallen  very 
lightly  on  him;  the  men  he  knew  were  acquaint 
ances,  not  friends;  the  women  had  been  merely 
border  decorations,  variations  of  light  and  shadow 
which  never  shone  really  deep  into  the  stream  of 
his  existence;  even  his  father  had  not  been  near 
him ;  but  by  the  irresistible  force  of  circumstances 
which  he  could  not  control,  this  girl  was  forced 
bodily  upon  his  consciousness. 

Now  he  heard  a  cheery,  faint  crackling  from  the 
house  and  a  rosy  glow  pervaded  the  gloom  beyond 
the  doorway.  It  brought  home  to  Anthony  the 
fact  that  he  was  tired;  weariness  went  through  all 
his  limbs  like  the  sound  of  music.  Music  in  fact, 
for  the  girl  was  singing  softly — to  herself. 

He  took  his  foot  from  the  stirrup,  unsaddled, 
and  carried  the  saddle  into  the  room.  He  found 
Sally  crouched  at  the  fire  and  piling  bits  of  wood 
on  the  rising  flame.  Her  face  was  squinted  to 
avoid  the  smoke,  and  she  sheltered  her  eyes  with 


300  Trailin' 

one  hand.  At  his  coming  she  smiled  briefly  up 
at  him  and  turned  immediately  back  to  the  fire. 
The  silence  of  that  smile  brought  their  comradeship 
sharply  home  to  him.  It  was  as  if  she  understood 
his  weariness  and  knew  that  the  fire  was  infinitely 
comforting.  Anthony  frowned ;  he  did  not  wish  to 
be  understood.  It  was  irritating — indelicate. 

He  sat  on  one  of  the  bunks,  and  when  she  took 
her  place  on  the  other  he  studied  her  covertly,  with 
side  glances,  for  he  was  beginning  to  feel  strangely 
self-conscious.  It  was  the  situation  rather  than 
the  girl  that  gained  upon  him,  but  he  felt  shamed 
that  he  should  be  so  uncertain  of  himself  and  so 
liable  to  expose  some  weakness  before  the  girl. 

That  in  turn  raised  a  blindly  selfish  desire  to 
make  her  feel  and  acknowledge  his  mastery.  He 
did  not  define  the  emotion  exactly,  nor  see  clearly 
what  he  wished  to  do,  but  in  a  general  way  he 
wanted  to  be  necessary  to  her,  and  to  let  her  know 
at  the  same  time  that  she  was  nothing  to  him. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  the  opposite  was  the  truth 
just  now. 

At  this  point  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  angry 
that  he  should  have  slipped  so  easily  into  the  char 
acter  of  a  sullen  boy,  hating  a  benefactor  for  no 
reason  other  than  his  benefactions;  but  the  same 
vicious  impulse  made  him  study  the  face  of  Sally 


Criticism  301 

Fortune  with  an  impersonal,  coldly  critical  eye. 
It  was  not  easy  to  do,  for  she  sat  with  her  head 
tilted  back  a  little,  as  though  to  take  the  warmth 
of  the  fire  more  fully.  The  faint  smile  on  her  lips 
showed  her  comfort,  mingled  with  retrospection. 

Here  he  lost  the  trend  of  his  thoughts  by  be 
ginning  to  wonder  of  what  she  could  be  thinking, 
but  he  called  himself  back  sharply  to  the  analysis 
of  her  features.  It  was  a  game  with  which  he  had 
often  amused  himself  among  the  girls  of  his  eastern 
acquaintance.  Their  beauty,  after  all,  was  their 
only  weapon,  and  when  he  discovered  that  that 
weapon  was  not  of  pure  steel,  they  became  nothing ; 
it  was  like  pushing  them  away  with  an  arm  of 
infinite  length. 

There  was  food  for  criticism  in  Sally's  features. 
The  nose,  of  course,  was  tipped  up  a  bit,  and  the 
mouth  too  large,  but  Anthony  discovered  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  centre  his  criticism  on 
either  feature.  The  tip-tilt  of  the  nose  suggested  a 
quaint  and  infinitely  buoyant  spirit ;  the  mouth,  if 
generously  wide,  was  exquisitely  made.  She  was 
certainly  not  pretty,  but  he  began  to  feel  with 
equal  certainty  that  she  was  beautiful. 

A  waiting  mood  came  on  him  while  he  watched, 
as  one  waits  through  a  great  symphony  and  en 
dures  the  monotonous  passages  for  the  sake  of  the 


Trailin' 


singing  bursts  of  harmony  to  which  the  commoner 
parts  are  a  necessary  background.  He  began  to 
wish  that  she  would  turn  her  head  so  that  he  could 
see  her  eyes.  They  were  like  the  inspired  part  of 
that  same  symphony,  a  beauty  which  could  not  be 
remembered  and  was  always  new,  satisfying.  He 
could  make  her  turn  by  speaking,  and  knowing 
that  this  was  so,  he  postponed  the  pleasure  like  a 
miser  who  will  only  count  his  gold  once  a  day. 

From  the  side  view  he  dwelt  on  the  short,  deli 
cately  carved  upper  lip  and  the  astonishingly 
pleasant  curve  of  the  cheek. 

"  Look  at  me,  "  he  said  abruptly. 

She  turned,  observed  him  calmly,  and  then 
glanced  back  to  the  fire.  She  asked  no  question. 

Her  chin  rested  on  her  hands,  now,  so  that  when 
she  spoke  her  head  nodded  a  little  and  gave  a  sig 
nificance  to  what  she  said. 

"The  grey  doesn't  belong  to  you?" 

So  she  was  thinking  of  horses  ! 

"Well,"  she  repeated. 

"No." 

"  Hoss-lif  ting,  "  she  mused. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  take  a  horse  when  they  had 
shot  down  mine?" 

She  turned  to  him  again,  and  this  time  her  gaze 
went  over  him  slowly,  curiously,  but  without 


Criticism  303 

speaking  she  looked  back  to  the  fire,  as  though 
explanation  of  what  "hoss-lifting"  meant  were 
something  far  beyond  the  grasp  of  his  mentality. 
His  anger  rose  again,  childishly,  sullenly,  and  he 
had  to  arm  himself  with  indifference. 

"Who'd  you  drop,  Bard?" 

"The  one  they  call  Calamity  Ben. " 

"Is  he  done  for?" 

"Yes." 

The  turmoil  of  the  scene  of  his  escape  came  back 
to  him  so  vividly  that  he  wondered  why  it  had  ever 
been  blurred  to  obscurity. 

She  said:  "In  a  couple  of  hours  we'd  better  ride 
on." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ABANDON 

THAT  was  all;  no  comment,  no  exclamation — 
she  continued  to  gaze  with  that  faint,  retrospective 
smile  toward  the  fire.  He  knew  now  why  she  an 
gered  him ;  it  was  because  she  had  held  the  upper 
hand  from  the  minute  that  ride  over  the  short  pass 
began — he  had  never  once  been  able  to  assert 
himself  impressively.  He  decided  to  try  now. 

"I  don't  intend  to  ride  on. " 

"Too  tired?" 

He  felt  the  clash  of  her  will  on  his,  even  like 
flint  against  steel,  whenever  they  spoke,  and  he 
began  to  wonder  what  spark  would  start  a  fire. 
It  made  him  think  of  a  game  of  poker,  in  a  way, 
for  he  never  knew  what  the  next  instant  would 
place  in  his  hands  while  the  cards  of  chance  were 
shuffled  and  dealt.  Tired?  There  was  a  subtle, 
scoffing  challenge  hidden  somewhere  in  that  word. 

"No,  but  I  don't  intend  to  go  any  farther  from 
Drew." 

304 


Abandon  305 

Her  smile  grew  more  pronounced;  she  even 
looked  to  him  with  a  frank  amusement,  for  appar 
ently  she  would  not  take  him  seriously. 

"If  I  were  you,  he'd  be  the  last  man  I'd  want  to 
be  near. " 

"I  suppose  you  would. " 

As  if  she  picked  up  the  gauntlet,  she  turned 
squarely  on  the  bunk  and  faced  him. 

"You're  going  to  hit  the  trail  in  an  hour,  under 
stand?" 

It  delighted  him — set  him  thrilling  with  excite 
ment  to  feel  her  open  anger  and  the  grip  of  her  will 
against  his;  he  had  to  force  a  frown  in  order  to 
conceal  a  smile. 

"If  I  do,  it  will  be  to  ride  back  toward 
Drew." 

Her  lips  parted  to  make  an  angry  retort,  and  then 
he  watched  her  steel  herself  with  patience,  like  a 
mother  teaching  an  old  lesson  to  a  child. 

"D'you  know  what  you'd  be  like,  wanderin' 
around  these  mountains  without  a  guide?" 

"Well?" 

"Like  a  kid  in  a  dark,  lonesome  room.  You'd 
travel  in  a  circle  and  fall  into  their  hands  in  a  day. " 

"Possibly." 

She  was  still  patient. 

"Follow  me  close,  Bard.     I  mean  that  if  you 


306  Trailin' 

don't  do  what  I  say  I'll  cut  loose  and  leave  you 
alone  here. " 

He  was  silent,  enjoying  her  sternness,  glad  to 
have  roused  her,  no  matter  what  the  consequences ; 
knowing  that  each  second  heightened  the  climax. 

Apparently  she  interpreted  his  speechlessness  in 
a  different  way.  She  said  after  a  moment:  "That 
sounds  like  quittin'  cold  on  you.  I  won't  do  it 
unless  you  try  some  fool  thing  like  riding  back 
toward  Drew." 

He  waited  again  as  long  as  he  dared,  then: 
' '  Don't  you  see  that  the  last  thing  I  want  is  to  keep 
you  with  me?" 

There  was  no  pleasure  in  that  climax.  She  sat 
with  parted  lips,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  in  her 
lap,  staring  at  him.  He  became  as  vividly  con 
scious  of  her  femininity  as  he  had  been  when  she 
laughed  in  the  dark.  There  was  the  same  sustained 
pulsing,  vital  emotion  in  this  silence. 

He  explained  hastily:  "A  girl's  reputation  is  a 
fragile  thing,  Sally." 

And  she  recovered  herself  with  a  start,  but  not 
before  he  saw  and  understood.  It  was  as  if,  in  the 
midst  of  an  exciting  hand,  with  the  wagers  running 
high,  he  had  seen  her  cards  and  knew  that  his  own 
hand  was  higher.  The  pleasant  sense  of  mastery 
made  a  warmth  through  him. 


Abandon  307 

4 'Meaning  that  they'd  talk  about  me?  Bard, 
they've  already  said  enough  things  about  me  to  fill 
a  book — notes  and  all,  with  a  bunch  of  pictures 
thrown  in.  What  I  can't  live  down  I  fight  down, 
and  no  man  never  says  the  same  thing  twice  about 
me.  It  ain't  healthy.  If  that's  all  that  bothers 
you,  close  your  eyes  and  let  me  lead  you  out  of  this 


mess." 


He  hunted  about  for  some  other  way  to  draw 
her  out.  After  all,  it  was  an  old,  old  game.  He 
had  played  it  before  many  a  time;  though  the 
setting  and  the  lights  had  been  different  the  play 
was  always  the  same — a  man,  and  a  woman. 

She  was  explaining:  "And  it  is  a  mess.  Maybe 
you  could  get  out  after  droppin'  Calamity,  because 
it  was  partly  self-defence,  but  there  ain't  nothin' 
between  here  and  God  that  can  get  you  off  from 
liftin'  a  hoss.  No,  sir,  not  even  returning  the  hoss 
won't  do  no  good.  I  know!  The  only  thing  is 
speed — and  a  thousand  miles  east  of  here  you  can 
stop  ridin'. " 

He  found  the  thing  to  say,  and  he  made  his  voice 
earnest  and  low  to  give  the  words  wing  and  sharp 
ness  ;  it  was  like  the  bum  of  the  bow  string  after  the 
arrow  is  launched,  so  tense  was  the  tremor  of  his  tone. 

"There  are  two  reasons  why  I  can't  leave.  The 
first  is  Drew.  I  must  get  back  to  him. " 


308  Trailin' 

"Why  d'you  want  Drew?  Let  me  tell  you, 
Bard,  he's  a  bigger  job  than  ten  tenderfeet  like  you 
could  handle.  Why,  mothers  scare  their  babies 
asleep  by  tellin'  of  the  things  that  William  Drew 
has  done. " 

' '  I  can't  tell  you  why.  In  fact,  I  don't  altogether 
know  the  complete  why  and  wherefore.  It's 
enough  that  I  have  to  meet  him  and  finish  him ! " 

Her  fingers  interlaced  and  gripped ;  he  wondered 
at  their  slenderness;  and  leaning  back  so  that  his 
face  fell  under  a  slant,  black  shadow,  he  enjoyed 
the  flame  of  the  firelight,  turning  her  brown  hair 
to  amber  and  gold.  White  and  round  and  smooth 
and  perfect  was  the  column  of  her  throat,  and  it 
trembled  with  the  stir  of  her  voice. 

"The  most  fool  idea  I  ever  heard.  Sounds  like 
something  in  a  dream — a  nightmare.  What  d'you 
want  to  do,  Anthony,  make  yourself  famous? 
You  will  be,  all  right;  they'll  put  up  your  tomb 
stone  by  a  public  subscription. " 

He  would  not  answer,  sure  of  himself;  waiting, 
tingling  with  enjoyment. 

As  he  expected,  she  said:  "Go  on;  is  the  other 
reason  as  good  as  that  one?" 

Making  hi§  expression  grim,  he  leaned  suddenly 
forward,  and  though  the  width  of  the  room  sepa 
rated  them,  she  drew  back  a  little,  as  though  the 


Abandon  309 

shadow  of  his  coming  cast  a  forewarning  shade 
across  her.  He  heard  her  breath  catch,  and  as  if 
some  impalpable  and  joyous  spirit  rushed  to  meet 
and  mingle  with  his,  something  from  her,  a  spirit 
as  warm  as  the  fire,  as  faintly,  keenly  sweet  as  an 
air  from  a  night-dark,  unseen  garden  blowing  in  his 
face. 

"The  other  reason  is  you,  Sally  Fortune.  You 
can't  go  with  me  as  far  as  I  must  go;  and  I  can't 
leave  you  behind. " 

Ah,  there  it  was!  He  had  fumbled  at  the  keys 
of  the  organ  in  the  dark ;  he  had  spread  his  fingers 
amply  and  pressed  down;  behold,  back  from  the 
cathedral  lofts  echoed  a  rising  music  of  surpassing 
beauty.  Like  the  organist,  he  sank  back  again  in 
the  shadow  and  wondered  at  the  phrase  of  melody. 
Surely  he  had  not  created  it  ?  Then  what  ?  God, 
perhaps.  For  her  lips  parted  to  a  smile  that  was 
suggested  rather  than  seen,  a  tender,  womanly 
sweetness  that  played  about  her  mouth ;  and  a  light 
came  in  her  eyes  that  would  never  wholly  die  from 
them.  Afterward  he  would  feel  shame  for  what  he 
had  done,  but  now  he  was  wholly  wrapped  in  the 
new  thing  that  had  been  born  in  her,  like  a  bird 
striving  to  fly  in  the  teeth  of  a  great  storm,  and 
giving  back  with  reeling,  drumming  wings,  a  beau 
tiful  and  touching  sight. 


310  Trailin' 

Her  lips  framed  words  that  made  no  sound. 
Truly,  she  was  making  a  gallant  struggle.  Then 
she  said:  "Anthony!"  She  was  pale  with  the 
struggle,  now,  but  she  rose  bravely  to  her  part. 
She  even  laughed,  though  it  fell  short  like  an  arrow 
dropping  in  front  of  the  target. 

"Listen,  Bard,  you  make  a  pretty  good  imitation 
of  Samson,  but  I  ain't  cut  out  for  any  Delilah.  If 
I'm  holding  you  here,  why,  cut  and  run  and  for 
get  it." 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  went  on  more  con 
fidently:  "It  ain't  any  use;  I'm  not  cut  out  for  any 
man — I'd  so  much  rather  be — free.  I've  tried  to 
get  interested  in  others,  but  it  never  works. " 

She  laughed  again,  more  surely,  and  with  a 
certain  hardness  like  the  ringing  of  metal  against 
metal,  or  the  after  rhythm  from  the  peal  of  a  bell. 
With  deft,  flying  fingers  she  rolled  a  cigarette, 
lighted  it,  and  sat  down  cross-legged. 

Through  the  first  outward  puff  of  smoke  went 
these  words:  "The  only  thing  that's  a  woman 
about  me  is  skirts.  That's  straight. " 

Yet  he  knew  that  his  power  was  besieging  her 
on  every  side.  Her  power  seemed  gone,  and  she 
was  like  a  rare  flower  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand ;  all 
that  he  had  to  do  was  to  close  his  fingers,  and— 
He  despised  himself  for  it,  but  he  could  not  resist 


Abandon  31 1 

Moreover,  he  half  counted  on  her  pride  to  make  her 
break  away. 

''Then  if  it's  hopeless,  Sally  Fortune,  go  now. " 

She  answered,  with  an  upward  tilt  of  her  chin: 
* '  Don't  be  a  fool,  Anthony.  If  I  can't  be  a  woman 
to  you,  at  least  I  can  be  a  pal — the  best  you've 
had  in  these  parts.  Nope,  I'll  see  you  through. 
Better  saddle  now ' 

"And  start  back  for  Drew?" 

There  was  the  thrust  that  made  her  start,  as  if 
the  knife  went  through  tender  flesh. 

"Are  you  such  a  plumb  fool  as  that?" 

"Go  now,  Sally.  I  tell  you,  it's  no  use.  I  won't 
leave  the  trail  of  Drew. " 

It  was  only  the  outward  stretch  of  her  arm,  only 
the  extension  of  her  hand,  palm  up,  but  it  was 
as  if  her  whole  nature  expanded  toward  him  in 
tenderness. 

"Oh,  Anthony,  if  you  care  for  me,  don't  stay 
in  reach  of  Drew!  You're  breaking " 

She  stopped  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Breakin'  all  the  rules,  like  any  tenderfoot 
would  be  expected  to  do. " 

She  glanced  at  him,  wistful,  to  see  whether  or 
not  she  had  smoothed  it  over;  his  face  was  a  blank. 

"You  won't  go?" 

"Nope." 


Trailin' 


He  insisted  cruelly:  "Why?" 

"Because  —  because  —  well,  can  I  leave  a  baby 
alone  near  a  fire  ?  Not  me  !  '  ' 

Her  voice  changed.  The  light  and  the  life  was 
gone  from  it,  but  not  all  the  music.  It  was  low,  a 
little  hoarse. 

"I  guess  we  can  stay  here  tonight  without  no 
danger.  And  in  the  morning  —  well,  the  morning 
can  take  care  of  itself.  I'm  going  to  turn  in.  " 

He  rose  obediently  and  stood  at  the  door,  facing 
the  night.  From  behind  came  the  rustle  of  clothes, 
and  the  sense  of  her  followed  and  surrounded  and 
stood  at  his  shoulder  calling  to  him  to  turn.  He 
had  won,  but  he  began  to  wonder  if  it  had  not  been 
a  Pyrrhic  victory. 

At  length  :  "All  right,  Anthony.    It's  your  turn." 

She  was  lying  on  her  side,  facing  the  wall,  a 
little  heap  of  clothes  on  the  foot  of  her  bunk,  and 
the  lithe  lines  of  her  body  something  to  be  guessed 
at  —  sensed  beneath  the  heavy  blanket.  He  slipped 
into  his  own  bunk  and  lay  a  moment  watching  the 
heavy  drift  of  shadows  across  the  ceiling.  He 
strove  to  think,  but  the  waves  of  light  and  dark 
blotted  from  his  mind  all  except  the  feeling  of  her 
nearness,  that  indefinable  power  keen  as  the  fra 
grance  of  a  garden,  which  had  never  quite  become 
disentangled  from  his  spirit.  She  was  there,  so 


Abandon  3*3 

close.  If  he  called,  she  would  answer;  if  she 
answered 

He  turned  to  the  wall,  shut  his  eyes,  and  closed 
his  mind  with  a  Spartan  effort.  His  breathing 
came  heavily,  regularly,  like  one  who  slept  or  one 
who  is  running.  Over  that  sound  he  caught  at 
length  another  light  rustling,  and  then  the  faint 
creak  as  she  crossed  the  crazy  floor.  He  made  his 
face  calm — forced  his  breath  to  grow  more  soft 
and  regular. 

Then,  as  if  a  shadow  in  which  there  is  warmth 
had  crossed  him,  he  knew  that  she  was  leaning 
above  him,  close,  closer ;  he  could  hear  her  breath. 
In  a  rush  of  tenderness,  he  forgot  her  beauty  of 
eyes  and  round,  strong  throat,  and  supple  body — 
he  forgot,  and  was  immersed,  like  an  eagle  winging 
into  a  radiant  sunset  cloud,  in  a  sense  only  of  her 
being,  quite  divorced  from  the  flesh,  the  mysterious 
rare  power  which  made  her  Sally  Fortune,  and 
would  not  change  no  matter  what  body  might 
contain  it. 

It  was  blindingly  intense,  and  when  his  senses 
cleared  he  knew  that  she  was  gone.  He  felt  as  if 
he  had  awakened  from  a  night  full  of  dreams  more 
vivid  than  life — dreams  which  left  him  too  weak  to 
cope  with  reality. 

For  a  time  he  dared  not  move.     He  was  feeling 


3i4  Trailin' 

for  himself  like  a  man  who  fumbles  his  way  down 
a  dark  passage  dangerous  with  obstructions.  At 
last  it  was  as  if  his  hand  touched  the  knob  of  a  door ; 
he  swung  it  open,  entered  a  room  full  of  dazzling 
light — himself.  He  shrank  back  from  it;  closed 
his  eyes  against  what  he  might  see. 

All  he  knew,  then,  was  an  overpowering  will  to 
see  her.  He  turned,  inch  by  inch,  little  degree  by 
degree,  knowing  that  if,  when  he  turned,  he  looked 
into  her  eyes,  the  end  would  rush  upon  them,  over 
whelm  them,  carry  them  along  like  straws  on  the 
flooding  river.  At  last  his  head  was  turned;  he 
looked. 

She  lay  on  her  back,  smiling  as  she  slept  One 
arm  hung  down  from  the  bunk  and  the  graceful 
fingers  trailed,  palm  up,  on  the  floor,  curling  a 
little,  as  if  she  had  just  relaxed  her  grasp  on  some 
thing.  And  down  past  her  shoulder,  half  covering 
the  whiteness  of  her  arm,  fled  the  torrent  of  brown 
hair,  with  the  firelight  playing  through  it  like  a 
sunlit  mist. 

He  rose,  and  dressed  with  a  deadly  caution,  for 
he  knew  that  he  must  go  at  once,  partly  for  her 
sake  that  he  must  be  seen  apart  from  her  this  night 
— partly  because  he  knew  that  he  must  leave  and 
never  come  back. 

He  had  hit  upon  the  distinctive  feature  of  the 


Abandon  315 

girl — a  purity  as  thin  and  clear  as  the  air  of  the 
uplands  in  which  she  drew  breath.  He  stooped 
and  smoothed  down  the  blankets  of  his  bunk,  for 
no  trace  of  him  must  be  seen  if  any  other  man 
should  come  during  this  night.  He  would  go  far 
away — see  and  be  seen — apart  from  Sally  Fortune. 
He  picked  up  his  saddle. 

Before  he  departed  he  leaned  low  above  her  as 
she  must  have  done  above  him,  until  the  dark 
shadow  of  lashes  was  tremulous  against  her  cheek. 
Then  he  straightened  and  stole  step  by  step  across 
the  floor,  to  the  door,  to  the  night ;  all  the  myriad 
small  white  eyes  of  the  heavens  looked  down  to 
him  in  hushed  surprise. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

JERRY    WOOD 

WHEN  he  was  at  the  old  Drew  place  before, 
Logan  had  told  him  of  Jerry  Wood's  place,  five 
miles  to  the  north  among  the  hills ;  and  to  this  he 
now  directed  his  horse,  riding  at  a  merciless  speed, 
as  if  he  strove  to  gain,  from  the  swift  succession 
of  rocks  and  trees  that  whirled  past  him,  new 
thoughts  to  supplant  the  ones  which  already 
occupied  him. 

He  reached  in  a  short  time  a  little  rise  of  ground 
below  which  stretched  a  darkly  wooded  hollow, 
and  in  the  midst  the  trees  gave  back  from  a  small 
house,  a  two-storied  affair,  with  not  a  light  showing. 
He  wished  to  announce  himself  and  his  name  at  this 
place  under  the  pretence  of  asking  harbourage  for 
the  brief  remainder  of  the  night.  The  news  of 
what  he  had  done  at  Drew's  place  could  not  have 
travelled  before  him  to  Wood's  house ;  but  the  next 
day  it  would  be  sure  to  come,  and  Wood  could  say 
that  he  had  seen  Bard — alone — the  previous  night. 

316 


Jerry  Wood 

It  would  be  a  sufficient  shield  for  the  name  of  Sally 
Fortune  in  that  incurious  region. 

So  he  banged  loudly  at  the  door. 

Eventually  a  light  showed  in  an  upper  window, 
and  a  voice  cried :  ' '  Who's  there  ? ' ' 

" Anthony  Bard." 

"Who  the  devil  is  Anthony  Bard?" 

"Lost  in  the  hills.  Can  you  give  me  a  place  to 
sleep  for  the  rest  of  the  night?  I'm  about  done 
up." 

"Wait  a  minute. " 

Voices  stirred  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house; 
the  lantern  disappeared;  steps  sounded,  descend 
ing  the  stairs,  and  then  the  door  was  unbarred  and 
held  a  cautious  inch  ajar.  The  ray  of  light  jumped 
out  at  Bard  like  an  accusing  arm. 

Evidently  a  brief  survey  convinced  Jerry  Wood 
that  the  stranger  was  no  more  than  what  he  pre 
tended.  He  opened  the  door  wide  and  stepped 
back. 

"Come  in." 

Bard  moved  inside,  taking  off  his  hat. 

"How  d'you  happen  to  be  lost  in  the  hills?" 

"I'm  a  bit  of  a  stranger  around  here,  you  see. " 

The  other  surveyed  him  with  a  growing  grin. 

"I  guess  maybe  you  are.  Sure,  we'll  put  you  up 
for  the  night.  Where's  your  hoss? " 


Trailin' 


He  went  out  and  raised  the  lantern  above  his 
head  to  look.  The  light  shone  back  from  the  lus 
trous,  wide  eyes  of  the  grey. 

Wood  turned  to  Bard. 

"Seems  to  me  I've  seen  that  hoss.  " 

"Yes.  I  bought  it  from  Duffy  out  at  Drew's 
place." 

"Oh!    Friend  of  Mr.  Drew?" 

Half  a  life  spent  on  the  mountain-desert  had  not 
been  enough  to  remove  from  Drew  that  distinguish 
ing  title  of  respect.  The  range  has  more  great  men 
than  it  has  "misters.  " 

"Not  exactly  a  friend,"  answered  Bard. 

"'Sail  right.  Long's  you  know  him,  you're  as 
good  as  gold  with  me.  Come  on  along  to  the  barn, 
and  we'll  knock  down  a  feed  for  the  hoss.  " 

He  chuckled  as  he  led  the  way. 

"For  that  matter,  there  ain't  any  I  know  that 
can  say  they're  friends  to  William  Drew,  though 
there's  plenty  that  would  like  to  if  they  thought 
they  could  get  away  with  it.  How's  he  lookin'?" 

"Why,  big  and  grey." 

"Sure.  He  never  changes  none.  Time  and 
years  don't  mean  nothin'  to  Drew.  He  started 
bein'  a  man  when  most  of  us  is  in  short  pants;  he'll 
keep  on  bein'  a  man  till  he  goes  out.  He  ain't  got 
many  friends  —  real  ones  —  but  I  don't  know  of  any 


Jerry  Wood  3*9 

enemies,  neither.  All  the  time  he's  been  on  the 
range  Drew  has  never  done  a  crooked  piece  of 
work.  Every  decent  man  on  the  range  would  take 
his  word  ag'in' — well,  ag'in'  the  Bible,  for  that 
matter." 

They  reached  the  barn  at  the  end  of  this  en 
comium,  and  Bard  unsaddled  his  horse.  The  other 
watched  him  critically. 

"Know  somethin'  about  hosses,  eh?" 

"A  little." 

"  When  I  seen  you,  I  put  you  down  for  a  tender 
foot.  Don't  mind,  do  you?  The  way  you  talked 
put  me  out. " 

"For  that  matter,  I  suppose  I  am  a  tenderfoot. " 

"Speakin'  of  tenderfoots,  I  heard  of  one  over  to 
Eldara  the  other  night  that  raised  considerable 
hell.  You  ain't  him,  are  you?" 

He  lifted  the  lantern  again  and  fixed  his  keen 
eyes  on  Bard. 

"However,"  he  went  on,  lowering  the  lantern 
with  an  apologetic  laugh,  "I'm  standin'  here  askin' 
questions  and  chatterin'  like  a  woman,  and  what 
you're  thinkin'  of  is  bed,  eh?  Come  on  with  me. " 

Upstairs  in  the  house  he  found  Bard  a  corner 
room  with  a  pile  of  straw  in  the  corner  by  way  of 
a  mattress.  There  he  spread  out  some  blankets, 
wished  his  guest  a  good  sleep,  and  departed. 


320  Trailin' 

Left  to  himself,  Anthony  stretched  out  flat  on 
his  back.  It  had  been  a  wild,  hard  day,  but  he  felt 
not  the  slightest  touch  of  weariness ;  all  he  wished 
was  to  relax  his  muscles  for  a  few  moments.  More 
over,  he  must  be  away  from  the  house  with  the 
dawn — first,  because  Sally  Fortune  might  waken, 
guess  where  he  had  gone,  and  follow  him ;  secondly 
because  the  news  of  what  had  happened  at  Drew's 
place  might  reach  Wood  at  any  hour. 

So  he  lay  trying  to  fight  the  thought  of  Sally  from 
his  mind  and  concentrate  on  some  way  of  getting 
back  to  Drew  without  riding  the  gauntlet  of  the  law. 

The  sleep  which  stole  upon  him  came  by  slow 
degrees;  or,  rather,  he  was  not  fully  asleep,  when  a 
sound  outside  the  house  roused  him  to  sharp  con 
sciousness  compared  with  which  his  drowsiness 
had  been  a  sleep. 

It  was  a  knocking  at  the  door,  not  loud,  but 
repeated.  At  the  same  time  he  heard  Jerry  Wood 
cursing  softly  in  a  neighbouring  room,  and  then 
the  telltale  creak  of  bedsprings. 

The  host  was  rousing  himself  a  second  time  that 
night.  Or,  rather,  it  was  morning  now,  for  when 
Anthony  sat  up  he  saw  that  the  hills  were  stepping 
out  of  the  shadows  of  the  night,  black,  ugly  shapes 
revealed  by  a  grey  background  of  the  sky.  A 
window  went  up  noisily. 


Jerry  Wood  321 

"Am  I  runnin'  a  hotel?"  roared  Jerry  Wood. 
"Ain't  I  to  have  no  sleep  no  more?  Who  are  ye?" 

A  lowered,  muttering  voice  answered. 

"All  right,"  said  Jerry,  changing  his  tone  at 
once.  "  I '  11  come  down . ' ' 

His  steps  descended  the  noisy  stairs  rapidly ;  the 
door  creaked.  Then  voices  began  again  outside 
the  house,  an  indistinct  mumble,  rising  to  one 
sharp  height  in  an  exclamation. 

Almost  at  once  steps  again  sounded  on  the  stairs, 
but  softly  now.  Bard  went  quietly  to  the  door, 
locked  it,  and  stole  back  to  the  window.  Below  it 
extended  the  roof  of  a  shed,  joining  the  main  body 
of  the  house  only  a  few  feet  under  his  window  and 
sloping  to  what  could  not  have  been  a  dangerous 
distance  from  the  ground.  He  raised  the  window- 
sash. 

Yet  he  waited,  something  as  he  had  waited  for 
Sally  Fortune  to  speak  earlier  in  the  night,  with  a 
sense  of  danger,  but  a  danger  which  thrilled  and 
delighted  him.  No  game  of  polo  could  match 
suspense  like  this.  Besides,  he  would  be  foolish 
to  go  before  he  was  sure. 

The  walls  were  gaping  with  cracks  that  carried 
the  sounds,  and  now  he  heard  a  sibilant  whisper 
with  a  perfect  clearness. 

"This  is  the  room." 


Trailin' 


There  was  a  click  as  the  lock  was  tried. 

'  '  Locked,  damn  it  !  " 

"Shut  up,  Butch.  Jerry,  have  you  got  a  bar,  or 
anything?  We'll  pry  it  down  and  break  in  on  him 
before  he  can  get  in  action.  " 

"You're  a  fool,  McNamara.  That  feller  don't 
take  a  wink  to  get  into  action.  Sure  he  didn't 
hear  you  when  you  hollered  out  the  window  ?  That 
was  a  fool  move,  Wood.  " 

"I  don't  think  he  heard.  There  wasn't  any 
sound  from  his  room  when  I  passed  it  goin'  down 
stairs.  Think  of  the  nerve  of  this  bird  comin'  here 
to  roost  after  what  he  done.  " 

"He  didn't  think  we'd  follow  him  so  fast.  " 

But  Anthony  waited  for  no  more.  He  slipped 
out  on  the  roof  of  the  shed,  lowered  himself  hand 
below  hand  to  the  edge,  and  dropped  lightly  to  the 
ground. 

The  grey,  at  his  coming,  flattened  back  its  ears, 
as  though  it  knew  that  more  hard  work  was  coming, 
but  he  saddled  rapidly,  led  it  outside,  and  rode  a 
short  distance  into  the  forest.  There  he  stopped. 

His  course  lay  due  north,  and  then  a  swerve  to 
the  side  and  a  straight  course  west  for  the  ranch  of 
William  Drew.  If  the  hounds  of  the  law  were  so 
close  on  his  trace,  they  certainly  would  never 
suspect  him  of  doubling  back  in  this  manner, 


Jerry  Wood  323 

and  he  would  have  the  rancher  to  himself  when 
he  arrived. 

Yet  still  he  did  not  start  the  grey  forward  to 
the  north.  For  to  the  south  lay  Sally  Fortune,  and 
at  the  thought  of  her  a  singular  hollowness  came 
about  his  heart,  a  loneliness,  not  for  himself,  but 
for  her.  Yes,  in  a  strange  way  all  self  was  blotted 
from  his  emotion. 

It  would  be  a  surrender  to  turn  back — now. 

And  like  a  defeated  man  who  rides  in  a  lost  cause, 
he  swung  the  grey  to  the  south  and  rode  back  over 
the  trail,  his  head  bowed. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
"TODO  ES  PERDO" 

IT  was  not  long  after  the  departure  of  Bard  that 
Sally  Fortune  awoke.  For  a  step  had  creaked  on 
the  floor,  and  she  looked  up  to  find  Steve  Nash 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  the  firelight 
gloomily  about  him;  behind,  blocking  the  door 
with  his  squat  figure,  stood  Shorty  Kilrain. 

"Where's  your  side-kicker?"  asked  Nash. 
" Where's  Bard?" 

And  looking  across  the  room,  she  saw  that  the 
other  bunk  was  empty.  She  raised  her  arms 
quickly,  as  if  to  stifle  a  yawn,  and  sat  up  in  the 
bunk,  holding  the  blanket  close  about  her  shoulders. 
The  face  she  showed  to  Nash  was  calmly  con 
temptuous. 

"The  bird  seems  to  be  flown,  eh?"  she  queried. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  repeated,  and  made  a  step 
nearer. 

She  knew  at  last  that  her  power  over  him  as  a 
woman  was  gone ;  she  caught  the  danger  of  his  tone, 

324 


"Todo  Es  Perdo"  325 

saw  it  in  the  steadiness  of  the  eyes  he  fixed  upon 
her.  Behind  was  a  great,  vague  feeling  of  loss,  the 
old  hollowness  about  the  heart.  It  made  her  reck 
less  of  consequences;  and  when  Nash  asked,  "Is 
he  hangin'  around  behind  the  corner,  maybe?" 
she  cried  : 

"If  he  was  that  close  you'd  have  sense  enough 
to  run,  Steve. " 

The  snarl  of  Nash  showed  his  teeth. 

"Out  with  it.  The  tenderfoot  ain't  left  his 
woman  fur  away.  Where's  he  gone?  Who's  he 
gone  to  shoot  in  the  back?  Where's  the  hoss  he 
started  out  to  rustle  ? ' ' 

' '  Kind  of  peeved,  Nash,  eh  ? " 

One  step  more  he  made,  towering  above  her. 

"I've  done  bein'  polite,  Sally.  I've  asked  you  a 
question. " 

"And  I've  answered  you:  I  don't  know.  " 

"Sally,  I'm  patient;  I  don't  mean  no  wrong  to 
you.  What  you've  been  to  me  I'm  goin'  to  bust 
myself  tryin'  to  forget;  but  don't  lie  to  me  now." 

Such  a  far  greater  woe  kept  up  a  throbbing  ache 
in  the  hollow  of  her  throat  that  now  she  laughed, 
laughed  slowly,  deliberately.  He  leaned,  caught 
her  wrist  in  a  crushing  pressure. 

4 '  You  demon ;  you  she-devil ! ' ' 

She  whirled  out  of  the  bunk,  the  blanket  caught 


326  Trailin' 

about  her  like  the  toga  of  some  ancient  Roman  girl ; 
and  as  she  moved  she  had  swept  up  something 
heavy  and  bright  from  the  floor. 

All  this,  and  still  his  grip  was  on  her  left  arm. 

"Drop  your  hand,  Nash. " 

With  a  falling  of  the  heart,  she  knew  that  he 
did  not  fear  her  gun;  instead,  a  light  of  pleasure 
gleamed  in  his  eyes  and  his  lower  jaw  thrust 
out. 

She  would  never  forget  his  face  as  he  looked  that 
moment. 

"Will  you  tell  me?" 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first.  " 

By  that  wrist  he  drew  her  resistlessly  toward 
him,  and  his  other  arm  went  about  her  and  crushed 
her  close ;  hate,  shame,  rage,  love  were  in  the  con 
torted  face  above  her.  She  pressed  the  muzzle  of 
her  revolver  against  his  side. 

"You're  in  beckoning  distance  of  that  hell, 
Steve!" 

' '  You  she- wolf — shoot  and  be  damned !  I'd  live 
long  enough  to  strangle  you.  " 

"You  know  me,  Steve;  don't  be  a  fool. " 

"Know  you?  Nobody  knows  you.  And  God 
Almighty,  Sally,  I  love  you  worse'n  ever ;  love  the 
very  way  you  hate  me.  Come  here!" 

He  jerked  her  closer  still,  leaned;  and  she  re- 


"TodoEs  Perdo"  327 

membered  then  that  Anthony  had  never  kissed 
her.    She  said: 

"You're  safe;  you  know  he  can't  see  you." 
He  threw  her  from  him  and  stood  snarling  like 
a  dog  growling  for  the  bone  it  fears  to  touch  be 
cause  there  may  be  poison  in  the  taste — a  starving 
dog,  and  a  bone  full  of  toothsome  marrow  which 
has  only  to  be  crushed  in  order  that  it  may  be 
enjoyed. 

"I'm  wishin'  nothin'  more  than  that  he  could 


see  me. " 


"Then  you're  a  worse  fool  than  I  took  you  for, 
Steve.  You  know  he'd  go  through  ten  like  you. " 

"There  ain't  no  man  has  gone  through  me  yet. " 

"But  he  would.  You  know  it.  He's  not 
stronger,  maybe  not  so  strong.  But  he  was  born 
to  win,  Steve;  he's  like — he's  like  Drew,  in  a  way. 
He  can't  fail." 

"If  I  wrung  that  throat  of  yours,"  he  said,  "I 
know  I  couldn't  get  out  of  you  where  he's  gone. " 

"Because  I  don't  know,  you  see. " 

"Don't  know?" 

"He's  given  me  the  slip. " 

"You!" 

"Funny,  ain't  it?  But  he  has.  Thought  I 
couldn't  ride  fast  enough  to  keep  up  with  him, 
maybe.  He's  gone  on  east,  of  course. " 


328  Trailin' 

"That's  another  lie." 

"Well,  you  know." 

"I  do." 

His  voice  changed. 

"Has  he  really  beat  it  away  from  you,  Sally?" 

She  watched  him  with  a  strange,  sneering  smile. 
Then  she  stepped  close. 

"Lean  your  ear  down  to  me,  Steve. " 

He  obeyed. 

"Ill  tell  you  what  ought  to  make  you  happy. 
He  don't  care  for  me  no  more  than  I  care  for — you, 
Steve." 

He  straightened  again,  wondering. 

"And  you?" 

1 '  I  threw  myself  at  him.  I  dunno  why  I'm  tellin' 
you,  except  it's  right  that  you  should  know.  But 
he  don't  want  me;  he's  gone  on  without  me. " 

"An' you  like  him  still?" 

She  merely  stared,  with  a  sick  smile. 

"My  God!"  he  murmured,  shaken  deep  with 
wonder.  "What's  he  made  of  ? " 

"Steel  and  fire— that's  all. " 

"Listen,  Sally,  forget  what  I've  done,  and " 

"Would  you  drop  his  trail,  Steve?" 

He  cursed  through  his  set  teeth. 

"If  that's  it — no.  It's  him  or  me,  and  I'm  sure 
to  beat  him  out.  Afterwards  you'll  forget  him. " 


"  Todo  Es  Perdo  "  329 

"Try  me." 

"Girls  have  said  that  before.  I'll  wait.  There 
ain't  no  one  but  you  for  me — damn  you — I  know 
that.  I'll  get  him  first,  and  then  I'll  wait.  " 

"Ten  like  you  couldn't  get  him. " 

"I've  six  men  behind  me. " 

She  was  still  defiant,  but  her  colour  changed. 

"Six,  Sally,  and  he's  out  here  among  the  hills, 
not  knowing  his  right  from  his  left.  I  ask  you :  has 
he  got  a  chance?" 

She  answered:  "No;  not  one." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  beckoned  to  Kilrain,  who 
had  stood  moveless  through  the  strange  dialogue, 
and  went  out  into  the  night. 

As  they  mounted  he  said:  "We're  going  straight 
for  the  place  where  I  told  Butch  Conklin  I'd  meet 
him.  Then  the  bunch  of  us  will  come  back. " 

"Why  waste  time?" 

"Because  he's  sure  to  come  back.  Shorty,  after 
a  feller  has  seen  Sally  smile — the  way  she  can  smile 
— he  couldn't  keep  away.  I  know!" 

They  rode  off  at  a  slow  trot,  like  men  who  have 
resigned  themselves  to  a  long  journey,  and  Sally 
watched  them  from  the  door.  She  sat  down,  cross- 
legged,  before  the  fire,  and  stirred  the  embers,  and 
strove  to  think. 

But  she  was  not  equipped  for  thinking,  all  her 


•1*     » 


330  Trailin 

life  had  been  merely  action,  action,  action,  and 
now,  as  she  strove  to  build  out  some  logical  se 
quence  and  find  her  destiny  in  it,  she  failed  miser 
ably,  and  fell  back  upon  herself.  She  was  one  of 
those  single-minded  people  who  give  themselves  up 
to  emotion  rarely,  but  when  they  do  their  whole 
body,  their  whole  soul  burns  in  the  flame. 

Into  her  mind  came  a  phrase  she  had  heard  in 
her  childhood.  On  the  outskirts  of  Eldara  there 
was  a  little  shack  owned  by  a  Mexican — Jose,  he 
was  called,  and  nothing  else, ' '  Greaser ' '  Jose.  One 
night  an  alarm  of  fire  was  given  in  Eldara,  and  the 
whole  populace  turned  out  to  enjoy  the  sight;  it 
was  a  festival  occasion,  in  a  way.  It  was  the  house 
of  Greaser  Jose. 

The  cowpunchers  manned  a  bucket  line,  but 
the  source  of  water  was  far  away,  the  line  too  long, 
and  the  flames  gained  faster  than  they  could  be 
quenched.  All  through  the  work  of  fire-fighting 
Greaser  Jose  was  everywhere  about  the  house, 
flinging  buckets  of  water  through  the  windows  into 
the  red  furnace  within ;  his  wife  and  the  two  chil 
dren  stood  stupidly,  staring,  dumb.  But  in  the 
end,  when  the  fire  was  towering  above  the  roof  of 
the  house,  roaring  and  crackling,  the  Mexican 
suddenly  raised  a  long  arm  and  called  to  the  bucket 
line,  "It  is  done.  Senors,  I  thank  you." 


"Todo  Es  Perdo"'  331 

Then  he  had  folded  his  arms  and  repeated  in  a 
monotone,  over  and  over  again:  "Todo  es  perdo; 
todo  es  perdo!" 

His  wife  came  to  him,  frantic,  wailing,  and  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck.  He  merely  repeated 
with  heavy  monotony:  "Todo  es  perdo;  todo  es 
perdo!" 

The  phrase  clung  in  the  mind  of  the  girl;  and 
she  rose  at  last  and  went  back  to  her  bunk,  repeat 
ing:  "Todo  es  perdo;  todo  es  perdo!  All  is  lost;  all 
is  lost!" 

No  tears  were  in  her  eyes;  they  were  wide  and 
solemn,  looking  up  to  the  shadows  of  the  ceiling, 
and  so  she  went  to  sleep  with  the  solemn  Spanish 
phrase  echoing  through  her  whole  being :  ' '  Todo  es 
perdo!" 

She  woke  with  the  smell  of  frying  bacon  pungent 
in  her  nostrils. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

BACON 

THE  savour  of  roasting  chicken,  that  first  deli 
cious  burst  of  aroma  when  the  oven  door  is  opened, 
would  tempt  an  angel  from  heaven  down  to  the 
lowly  earth.  A  Southerner  declares  that  his  nos 
trils  can  detect  at  a  prodigious  distance  the  cooking 
of  "possum  and  taters. "  A  Kanaka  has  a  cos 
mopolitan  appetite,  but  the  fragrance  which  moves 
him  most  nearly  is  the  scent  of  fish  baking  in  Ti 
leaves.  A  Frenchman  waits  unmoved  until  the 
perfume  of  some  rich  lamb  ragout,  an  air  laden 
with  spices,  is  wafted  toward  him. 

Every  man  and  every  nation  has  a  special  dish, 
in  general;  there  is  only  one  whose  appeal  is  uni 
versal.  It  is  not  for  any  class  or  nation;  it  is  pri 
marily  for  "the  hungry  man,"  no  matter  what 
has  given  him  an  appetite.  It  may  be  that  he  has 
pushed  a  pen  all  day,  or  reckoned  up  vast  columns, 
or  wielded  a  sledge-hammer,  or  ridden  a  wild  horse 
from  morning  to  night ;  but  the  savour  of  peculiar 

332 


Bacon  333 

excellence  to  the  nostrils  of  this  universal  hungry 
man  is  the  smell  of  frying  bacon. 

A  keen  appetite  is  even  stronger  than  sorrow, 
and  when  Sally  Fortune  awoke  with  that  strong 
perfume  in  her  nostrils,  she  sat  straight  up  among 
the  blankets,  startled  as  the  cavalry  horse  by  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet.  What  she  saw  was  An 
thony  Bard  kneeling  by  the  coals  of  the  fire  over 
which  steamed  a  coffee-pot  on  one  side  and  a  pan 
of  crisping  bacon  on  the  other. 

The  vision  shook  her  so  that  she  rubbed  her  eyes 
and  stared  again  to  make  sure.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  that  she  had  actually  wakened  during  the 
night  and  found  him  gone,  and  with  this  reality 
before  her  she  was  strongly  tempted  to  believe  that 
the  coming  of  Nash  was  only  a  vivid  dream. 

"Morning,  Anthony." 

He  turned  his  head  quickly  and  smiled  to  her. 

"Hello,  Sally." 

He  was  back  at  once,  turning  the  bacon,  which 
was  done  on  the  first  side.  Seeing  that  his  back 
was  turned,  she  dressed  quickly. 

"How'd  you  sleep?" 

"Well." 

"Where?" 

He  turned  more  slowly  this  time. 

"You  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night? " 


334  Trailin' 

"Yes." 

"What  wakened  you?" 

"Nash  and  Kilrain." 

He  sighed:  "I  wish  I'd  been  here." 

She  answered:  "I'll  wash  up;  we'll  eat;  and  then 
off  on  the  trail.  I've  an  idea  that  the  two  will  be 
back,  and  they'll  have  more  men  behind  them. " 

After  a  little  her  voice  called  from  the  out 
side:  "Anthony,  have  you  had  a  look  at  the 
morning?" 

He  came  obediently  to  the  doorway.  The  sun 
had  not  yet  risen,  but  the  fresh,  rose-coloured  light 
already  swept  around  the  horizon  throwing  the 
hills  in  sharp  relief  and  flushing,  far  away,  the  pure 
snows  of  the  Little  Brothers.  And  so  blinding  was 
the  sheen  of  the  lake  that  it  seemed  at  first -as 
though  the  sun  were  about  to  break  from  the 
waters,  for  there  all  the  radiance  of  the  sunrise 
was  reflected,  concentrated. 

Looking  in  this  manner  from  the  doorway,  with 
the  water  on  either  side  and  straight  ahead,  and 
the  dark,  narrow  point  of  land  cutting  that  colour 
like  a  prow,  it  seemed  to  Anthony  almost  as  if  he 
stood  on  the  bridge  of  a  ship  which  in  another 
moment  would  gather  head  and  sail  out  toward 
the  sea  of  fresh  beauty  beyond  the  peaks,  for  the 
old  house  of  William  Drew  stood  on  a  small  penin- 


Bacon  335 

sula,  thrusting  out  into  the  lake,  a  low,  shelving 
shore,  scattered  with  trees. 

Where  the  little  tongue  of  land  joined  the  main 
shore  the  ground  rose  abruptly  into  a  shoulder  of 
rocks  inaccessible  to  a  horse ;  the  entrance  and  exit 
to  the  house  must  be  on  either  side  of  this  shoulder 
hugging  closely  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Feeling  that  halo  of  the  morning  about  them, 
for  a  moment  Anthony  forgot  all  things  in  the  lift 
and  exhilaration  of  the  keen  air;  and  he  accepted 
the  girl  as  a  full  and  equal  partner  in  his  happiness, 
looking  to  her  for  sympathy. 

She  knelt  by  the  edge  of  the  water,  face  and 
throat  shining  and  wet,  her  head  bending  back, 
her  lips  parted  and  smiling.  It  thrilled  him  as  if 
she  were  singing  a  silent  song  which  made  the 
brightness  of  the  morning  and  the  colour  beyond 
the  peaks.  He  almost  waited  to  see  her  throat 
quiver — hear  the  high,  sweet  tone. 

But  a  scent  of  telltale  sharpness  drew  him  a 
thousand  leagues  down  and  made  him  whirl  with 
a  cry  of  dismay:  "The  bacon,  Sally!" 

It  was  hopelessly  burned;  some  of  it  was  even 
charred  on  the  bottom  of  the  pan.  Sally,  returning 
on  the  run,  took  charge  of  the  cookery  and  went 
about  it  with  a  speed  and  ability  that  kept  him 
silent;  which  being  the  ideal  mood  for  a  spec- 


336  Trailin' 

tator,  he  watched  and  found  himself  learning 
much. 

Whatever  that  scene  of  the  night  before  meant 
in  the  small  and  definite,  in  the  large  and  vague  it 
meant  that  he  had  a  claim  of  some  sort  on  Sally 
Fortune  and  it  is  only  when  a  man  feels  that  he  has 
this  claim,  this  proprietorship,  as  it  were,  that  he 
begins  to  see  a  woman  clearly. 

Before  this  his  observance  has  been  half  blind 
through  prejudice  either  for  or  against;  he  either 
sees  her  magnified  with  adulation,  or  else  the  large 
end  of  the  glass  is  placed  against  his  eye  and  she  is 
merely  a  speck  in  the  distance.  But  let  a  woman 
step  past  that  mysterious  wall  which  separates 
the  formal  from  the  intimate — only  one  step — at 
once  she  is  surrounded  by  the  eyes  of  a  man  as  if 
by  a  thousand  spies.  So  it  was  with  Anthony. 

It  moved  him,  for  instance,  to  see  the  supple 
strength  of  her  fingers  when  she  was  scraping  the 
charred  bacon  from  the  bottom  of  the  pan,  and  he 
was  particularly  fascinated  by  the  undulations  of 
the  small,  round  wrist.  He  glanced  down  to  his 
own  hand,  broad  and  bony  in  comparison. 

It  was  his  absorption  in  this  criticism  that  served 
to  keep  him  aloof  from  her  while  they  ate,  and  the 
girl  felt  it  like  an  arm  pushing  her  away.  She  had 
been  very  close  to  him  not  many  hours  before;  now 


Bacon  337 

she  was  far  away.  She  could  understand  nothing 
but  the  pain  of  it. 

As  he  finished  his  coffee  he  said,  staring  into  a 
corner:  "I  don't  know  why  I  came  back  to  you, 
Sally." 

"You  didn't  mean  to  come  back  when  you 
started?" 

"Of  course  not. 

She  flushed,  and  her  heart  beat  loudly  to  hear 
his  weakness.  He  was  keeping  nothing  from  her; 
he  was  thinking  aloud;  she  felt  that  the  bars  be 
tween  them  were  down  again. 

"In  the  first  place  I  went  because  I  had  to  be 
seen  and  known  by  name  in  some  place  far  away 
from  you.  That  was  for  your  sake.  In  the  second 
place  I  had  to  be  alone  for  the  work  that  lay 
ahead." 

"Drew?" 

"Yes.  It  all  worked  like  a  charm.  I  went  to 
the  house  of  Jerry  Wood,  told  him  my  name, 
stayed  there  until  Conklin  and  several  others  ar 
rived,  hunting  for  me,  and  then  gave  them  the 
slip." 

She  did  not  look  up  from  her  occupation,  which 
was  the  skilful  cleaning  of  her  gun. 

"It  was  perfect ;  the  way  clear  before  me ;  I  had 
dodged  through  their  lines,  so  to  speak,  when  I  gave 


338  Trailin' 

Conklin  the  slip,  and  I  could  ride  straight  for  Drew 
and  catch  him  unprepared.  Isn't  that  clear?" 

" But  you  didn't?" 

She  was  so  calm  about  it  that  he  grew  a  little 
angry;  she  would  not  look  up  from  the  cleaning 
of  the  gun. 

"That's  the  devil  of  it;  I  couldn't  stay  away. 
I  had  to  come  back  to  you. " 

She  restored  the  gun  to  her  holster  and  looked 
steadily  at  him ;  he  felt  a  certain  shock  in  counter 
ing  her  glance. 

"Because  I  thought  you  might  be  lonely,  Sally.  " 

"I  was." 

It  was  strange  to  see  how  little  fencing  there  was 
between  them.  They  were  like  men,  long  tried 
in  friendship  and  working  together  on  a  great  prob 
lem  full  of  significance  to  both. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  kept  sayin'  to  myself 
when  I  found  you  was  gone? " 

"Well?" 

' '  Todo  es  per  do;  todo  es  perdo  ! ' ' 

She  had  said  it  so  often  to  herself  that  now  some 
of  the  original  emotion  crept  into  her  voice.  His 
arm  went  out;  they  shook  hands  across  their 
breakfast  pans. 

She  went  on :  "  The  next  thing  is  Drew  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 


Bacon  339 

"There's  no  changing  you."  She  did  not  wait 
for  his  answer.  "I  know  that.  I  won't  ask  ques 
tions.  If  it  has  to  be  done  we'll  do  it  quickly ;  and 
afterward  I  can  find  a  way  out  for  us  both. " 

Something  like  a  foreknowledge  came  to  him, 
telling  him  that  the  thing  would  never  be  done — 
that  he  had  surrendered  his  last  chance  of  Drew 
when  he  turned  back  to  go  to  Sally.  It  was  as 
if  he  took  a  choice  between  the  killing  of  the  man 
and  the  love  of  the  woman.  But  he  said  nothing 
of  his  forebodings  and  helped  her  quietly  to  re 
arrange  the  small  pack.  They  saddled  and  took 
the  trail  which  pointed  up  over  the  mountains — 
the  same  trail  which  they  had  ridden  in  an  opposite 
direction  the  night  before. 

He  rode  with  his  head  turned,  taking  his  last 
look  at  the  old  house  of  Drew,  with  its  blackened, 
crumbling  sides,  when  the  girl  cried  softly: 
"What's  that?  Look!" 

He  stared  in  the  direction  of  her  pointing  arm. 
They  were  almost  directly  under  the  shoulder  of 
rocks  which  loomed  above  the  trail  along  the  edge 
of  the  lake.  Anthony  saw  nothing. 

"What  was  it?" 

He  checked  his  horse  beside  hers. 

"I  thought  I  saw  something  move.  I'm  not 
sure.  And  there — back,  Anthony!" 


340  Trailm' 

And  she  whirled  her  horse.  He  caught  it  this 
time  clearly,  the  unmistakable  glint  of  the  morning 
light  on  steel,  and  he  turned  the  grey  sharply.  At 
the  same  time  a  rattling  blast  of  revolver  shots 
crackled  above  them ;  the  grey  reared  and  pitched 
back. 

By  inches  he  escaped  the  fall  of  the  horse, 
slipping  from  the  saddle  in  the  nick  of  time.  A 
bullet  whipped  his  hat  from  his  head.  Then  the 
hand  of  the  girl  clutched  his  shoulder. 

11  Stirrup  and  saddle,  Anthony!" 

He  seized  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  hooked  his 
foot  into  the  stirrup  which  she  abandoned  to  him, 
and  she  spurred  back  toward  the  old  house. 

A  shout  followed  them,  a  roar  that  ended  in  a 
harsh  rattle  of  curses ;  they  heard  the  spat  of  bullets 
several  times  on  the  trees  past  which  they  whirled. 
But  it  was  only  a  second  before  they  were  once 
more  in  the  shelter  of  the  house.  He  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  stunned,  staring  stupidly 
around  him.  It  was  not  fear  of  death  that  be 
numbed  him,  but  a  rising  horror  that  he  should  be 
so  trapped — like  a  wild  beast  cornered  and  about 
to  be  worried  to  death  by  dogs. 

As  for  escape,  there  was  simply  no  chance — it 
was  impossible.  On  three  sides  the  lake,  still 
beautiful,  though  the  colour  was  fading  from  it, 


Bacon  34* 

effectively  blocked  their  way.  On  the  fourth  and 
narrowest  side  there  was  the  shoulder  of  rocks,  not 
only  blocking  them,  but  affording  a  perfect  shelter 
for  Nash  and  his  men,  for  they  did  not  doubt  that 
it  was  he. 

"They  think  they've  got  us,"  said  a  fiercely 
exultant  voice  beside  him,  "but  we  ain't  started  to 
make  all  the  trouble  we're  goin'  to  make." 

Life  came  back  to  him  as  he  looked  at  her.  She 
was  trembling  with  excitement,  but  it  was  the 
tremor  of  eagerness,  not  the  unmistakable  sick 
palsy  of  fear.  He  drew  out  a  large  handkerchief 
of  fine,  white  linen  and  tied  it  to  a  long  splinter  of 
wood  which  he  tore  away  from  one  of  the  rotten 
boards. 

' '  Go  out  with  this, ' '  he  said.  ' '  They  aren't  after 
you,  Sally.  This  is  west  of  the  Rockies,  thank 
God,  and  a  woman  is  safe  with  the  worst  man  that 
ever  committed  murder. " 

She  said:  "D'you  mean  this,  Anthony?" 

"I'm  trying  to  mean  it.  " 

She  snatched  the  stick  and  snapped  it  into  small 
pieces. 

"Does  that  look  final,  Anthony?" 

He  could  not  answer  for  a  moment.  At  last  he 
said:  "What  a  woman  you  would  have  made  for  a 
wife,  Sally  Fortune;  what  a  fine  pal!" 


342  Trailin' 

But  she  laughed,  a  mirth  not  forced  and  harsh, 
but  clear  and  ringing. 

"Anthony,  ain't  this  better 'n  marriage?" 

"By  God, "  he  answered,  "I  almost  think  you're 
right." 

For  answer  a  bullet  ripped  through  the  right- 
hand  wall  and  buried  itself  in  a  beam  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  room. 

"Listen!"  she  said. 

There  was  a  fresh  crackle  of  guns,  the  reports 
louder  and  longer  drawn. 

1 '  Rifles,  "said  Sally  Fortune.  ' '  I  knew  no  bullet 
from  a  six-gun  could  carry  like  that  one. " 

The  little,  sharp  sounds  of  splintering  and  crunch 
ing  began  everywhere.  A  cloud  of  soot  spilled  down 
the  chimney  and  across  the  hearth.  A  furrow 
ploughed  across  the  floor,  lifting  a  splinter  as  long 
and  even  as  if  it  had  been  grooved  out  by  a  machine. 

"Look!"  said  Sally,  "they're  firm'  breast  high 
to  catch  us  standing,  and  on  the  level  of  the  floor 
to  get  us  if  we  lie  down.  That's  Nash.  I  know  his 
trademark. " 

"From  the  back  of  the  house  we  can  answer 
them, "  said  Bard.  "Let's  try  it. " 

"Pepper  for  their  salt,  eh?"  answered  Sally, 
and  they  ran  back  through  the  old  shack  to  the 
last  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

LEGAL  MURDER 

As  Drew  entered  his  bedroom  he  found  the  doc 
tor  in  the  act  of  restoring  the  thermometer  to  its 
case.  His  coat  was  off  and  his  sleeves  rolled  up  to 
the  elbow;  he  looked  more  like  a  man  preparing 
to  chop  wood  than  a  physician  engaging  in  a 
struggle  with  death ;  but  Dr.  Young  had  the  fight 
ing  strain.  Otherwise  he  would  never  have  per 
sisted  in  Eldara. 

Already  the  subtle  atmosphere  of  sickness  had 
come  upon  the  room.  The  shades  of  the  windows 
were  drawn  evenly,  and  low  down,  so  that  the  in 
creasing  brightness  of  the  morning  could  only 
temper,  not  wholly  dismiss  the  shadows.  Night  is 
the  only  reality  of  the  sick-bed ;  the  day  is  only  a 
long  evening,  a  waiting  for  the  utter  dark.  The 
doctor's  little  square  satchel  of  instruments,  vials, 
and  bandages  lay  open  on  the  table;  he  had 
changed  the  apartment  as  utterly  as  he  had 
changed  his  face  by  putting  on  great,  horn-rimmed 

343 


344  Trailin' 

spectacles.  They  gave  an  owl-like  look  to  him,  an 
air  of  omniscience.  It  seemed  as  if  no  mortal  ail 
ment  could  persist  in  the  face  of  such  wisdom. 

"Well?"  whispered  Drew. 

"You  can  speak  out,  but  not  loudly, "  said  the 
doctor  calmly.  ' '  He's  delirious ;  the  fever  is  getting 
its  hold." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Nothing.    The  time  hasn't  come  for  thinking." 

He  bent  his  emotionless  eye  closer  on  the  big 
rancher. 

"You,"  he  said,  "ought  to  be  in  bed  this 
moment." 

Drew  waved  the  suggestion  aside. 

"Let  me  give  you  a  sedative, "  added  Young. 

"Nonsense.    I'm  going  to  stay  here. " 

The  doctor  gave  up  the  effort;  dismissed  Drew 
from  his  mind,  and  focused  his  glance  on  the  pa 
tient  once  more.  Calamity  Ben  was  moving  his 
head  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  keeping  up  a 
gibbering  mutter.  It  rose  now  to  words. 

"Joe,  a  mule  is  to  a  hoss  what  a  woman  is  to  a 
man.  Ever  notice?  The  difference  ain't  so  much 
in  what  they  do  as  what  they  don't  do.  Me 
speakin'  personal,  I'll  take  a  lot  from  any  hoss  and 
lay  it  to  jest  plain  spirit ;  but  a  mule  can  make  me 
mad  by  standin'  still  and  doin'  nothing  but  wab- 


Legal  Murder  345 

blin'  them  long  ears  as  if  it  understood  things  it 
wasn't  goin'  to  speak  about.  Y'  always  feel 
around  a  mule  as  if  it  knew  somethin'  about  you — 
had  somethin'  on  you — and  was  laughin'  soft  and 
deep  inside.  Damn  a  mule !  I  remember 

But  here  he  sank  into  the  steady,  voiceless 
whisper  again,  the  shadow  of  a  sound  rather  than 
the  reality.  It  was  ghostly  to  hear,  even  by  day 
light. 

"Will  it  keep  up  long?"  asked  Drew. 

"Maybe  until  he  dies. " 

"I've  told  you  before;  it's  impossible  for  him  to 
die." 

The  doctor  made  a  gesture  of  resignation. 

He  explained:  "As  long  as  this  fever  grows  our 
man  will  steadily  weaken;  it  shows  that  he's  on 
the  downward  path.  If  it  breaks — why,  that 
means  that  he  will  have  a  chance — more  than  a 
chance — to  get  well.  It  will  mean  that  he  has 
enough  reserve  strength  to  fight  off  the  shock  of 
the  wound  and  survive  the  loss  of  the  blood. ' ' 

"It  will  mean, "  said  Drew,  apparently  thinking 
aloud,  "that  the  guilt  of  murder  does  not  fall  on 
Anthony." 

"Who  is  Anthony?" 

The  wounded  man  broke  in ;  his  voice  rose  high 
and  sharp:  "Halt!" 


346  Trailin' 

He  went  on,  in  a  sighing  mumble:  "Shorty — 
help— I'm  done  for!" 

"The  shooting, "  said  the  doctor,  who  had  kept 
his  fingers  on  the  wrist  of  his  patient;  "I  could 
feel  his  pulse  leap  and  stop  when  he  said  that. " 

"He  said  'halt!'  first;  a  very  clear  sign  that  he 
tried  to  stop  Bard  before  Bard  shot.  Doctor, 
you're  witness  to  that?" 

He  had  grown  deeply  excited. 

"I'm  witness  to  nothing.  I  never  dreamed  that 
you  could  be  so  interested  in  any  human  being. " 

He  nodded  to  himself. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  explained  your  greyness 
to  myself?  As  that  of  a  man  ennuied  with  life — 
tired  of  living  because  he  had  nothing  in  the  world 
to  occupy  his  affections.  And  here  I  find  you  so 
far  from  being  ennuied  that  you  are  using  your 
whole  strength  to  keep  the  guilt  of  murder  away 
from  another  man.  It's  amazing.  The  boys  will 
never  believe  it. " 

He  continued:  "A  man  who  raised  a  riot  in  your 
own  house,  almost  burned  down  your  place,  shot 
your  man,  stole  a  horse — gad,  Drew,  you  are 
sublime!" 

But  if  he  expected  an  explanatory  answer  from 
the  rancher  he  was  disappointed.  The  latter  pulled 
up  a  chair  beside  the  bed  and  bent  his  stern  eyes 


Legal  Murder  347 

on  the  patient  as  if  he  were  concentrating  all  of 
a  great  will  on  bringing'  Calamity  Ben  back  to 
health. 

He  worked  with  the  doctor.  Every  half  hour  a 
temperature  was  taken,  and  it  was  going  up  stead 
ily.  Drew  heard  the  report  each  time  with  a 
tightening  of  the  muscles  about  his  jaws.  He 
helped  pack  the  wounded  man  with  wet  cloths. 
He  ran  out  and  stopped  a  wrangling  noise  of  the 
cowpunchers  several  times.  But  mostly  he  sat 
without  motion  beside  the  bed,  trying  to  will  the 
sufferer  back  to  life. 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  morning,  after  taking 
a  temperature,  the  doctor  looked  to  the  rancher 
with  a  sort  of  dull  wonder. 

"It's  dropping  ? ' '  whispered  Drew. 

"It's  lower.  I  don't  think  it's  dropping.  It 
can 't  be  going  down  so  soon.  Wait  till  the  next 
time  I  register  it.  If  it's  still  lower  then — he'll  get 
well." 

The  grey  man  sagged  forward  from  his  chair 
to  his  knees  and  took  the  hands  of  Calamity,  long- 
fingered,  bony,  cold  hands  they  were.  There  he 
remained,  moveless,  his  keen  eyes  close  to  the 
wandering  stare  of  the  delirious  man.  Out  of  the 
exhaustless  reservoir  of  his  will  he  seemed  to  be 
injecting  an  electric  strength  into  the  other,  a 


348  Trailin' 

steadying  and  even  flow  of  power  that  passed  from 
his  hands  and  into  the  body  of  Calamity. 

When  the  time  came,  and  Young  stood  looking 
down  at  the  thermometer,  Drew  lifted  haggard 
eyes,  waiting. 

1  'It  'slower!" 

The  great  arms  of  the  rancher  were  thrown 
above  his  head;  he  rose,  changed,  triumphant,  as 
if  he  had  torn  his  happiness  from  the  heart  of 
the  heavens,  and  went  hastily  from  the  room, 
silent. 

At  the  stable  he  took  his  great  bay,  saddled  him, 
and  swung  out  on  the  trail  for  Eldara,  a  short, 
rough  trail  which  led  across  the  Saverack — the 
same  course  which  Nash  and  Bard  had  taken  the 
day  before. 

But  the  river  had  greatly  fallen — the  water 
hardly  washed  above  the  knees  of  the  horse  except 
in  the  centre  of  the  stream;  by  noon  he  reached 
the  town  and  went  straight  for  the  office  of  Glen- 
din.  The  deputy  was  not  there,  and  the  rancher 
was  referred  to  Murphy's  saloon. 

There  he  found  Glendin,  seated  at  a  corner  table 
with  a  glass  of  beer  in  front  of  him,  and  consider 
ing  the  sun-whitened  landscape  lazily  through  the 
window.  At  the  sound  of  the  heavy  footfall  of 
Drew  he  turned,  rose,  his  shoulders  flattened 


Legal  Murder  349 

against  the  wall  behind  him  like  a  cornered  man 
prepared  for  a  desperate  stand. 

"It's  all  right,"  cried  Drew.  "It's  all  over, 
Glen  din.  Duffy  won't  press  any  charges  against 
Bard ;  he  says  that  he's  given  the  horse  away.  And 
Calamity  Ben  is  going  to  live. " 

4 'Who  say  she  will?" 

"I've  just  ridden  in  from  his  bedside.  Dr. 
Young  says  the  crisis  is  past.  And  so — thank 
God — there's  no  danger  to  Bard;  he's  free  from 
the  law!" 

"Too  late,  "  said  the  deputy. 

It  did  not  seem  that  Drew  heard  him.  He 
stepped  closer  and  turned  his  head. 

"What's  that?" 

"Too  late.  I've  sent  out  men  to — to  apprehend 
Bard." 

"'Apprehend'  him?"  repeated  Drew.  "Is  it 
possible?  To  murder  him,  you  mean!" 

He  had  not  made  a  threatening  move,  but  the 
deputy  had  his  grip  on  the  butt  of  his  gun. 

"It  was  that  devil  Nash.  He  persuaded  me  to 
send  out  a  posse  with  him  in  charge.  " 

' '  And  you  sent  him  ? ' ' 

"What  could  I  do?    Ain't  it  legal?" 

"Murder  is  legal — sometimes.  It  has  been  in 
the  past.  I've  an  idea  that  it's  going  to  be  again. " 


350  Trailin' 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?" 

"You'll  learn  later.  Where  did  they  go  for 
Bard?" 

He  did  not  seem  disappointed.  He  was  rather 
like  a  man  who  had  already  heard  bad  news  and 
now  only  finds  it  confirmed.  He  knew  before. 
Now  the  fact  was  simply  clinched. 

"They  went  out  to  your  old  place  on  the  other 
side  of  the  range.  Drew,  listen  to  me " 

"How  many  went  after  him?" 

"Nash,  Butch  Conklin,  and  five  more.  Butch's 
gang." 

"Conklin!" 

"I  was  in  a  hole;  I  needed  men. " 

"How  long  have  they  been  gone?" 

"Since  last  night." 

"Then,"  said  Drew,  "he's  already  dead.  He 
doesn't  know  the  mountains.  " 

"I  give  Nash  strict  orders  not  to  do  nothin'  but 
apprehend  Bard. " 

"Don't  talk,  Glendin.  It  disgusts  me — makes 
my  flesh  crawl.  He's  alone,  with  seven  cutthroats 
against  him. " 

"Not  alone.  Sally  Fortune's  better'n  two  com 
mon  men. " 

"The  girl?  God  bless  her!  She's  with  him;  she 
knows  the  country.  There  may  be  a  hope;  Glen- 


Legal  Murder  35 1 

din,  if  you're  wise,  start  praying  now  that  I  find 
Bard  alive.  If  I  don't " 

The  swinging  doors  closed  behind  him  as  he 
rushed  through  toward  his  horse.  Glendin  stood 
dazed,  his  face  mottled  with  a  sick  pallor.  Then 
he  moved  automatically  toward  the  bar.  Murphy 
hobbled  down  the  length  of  the  room  on  his 
wooden  leg  and  placed  bottle  and  glass  before  the 
deputy. 

"Well?  "he  queried. 

Glendin  poured  his  drink  with  a  shaking  hand, 
spilling  much  liquor  across  the  varnished  wood. 
He  drained  his  glass  at  a  gulp. 

"I  dunno;  what  d'you  think,  Murphy?" 

"You  heard  him  talk,  Glendin.  You  ought  to 
know  what's  best. " 

"Let's  hear  you  say  it. " 

"I'd  climb  the  best  hoss  I  owned  and  start  west, 
and  when  I  come  to  the  sea  I'd  take  a  ship  and  keep 
right  on  goin'  till  I  got  halfway  around  the  world. 
And  then  I'd  climb  a  mountain  and  hire  a  couple 
of  dead-shots  for  guards  and  have  my  first  night's 
sleep.  After  that  I'd  begin  thinkin'  of  what  I  could 
do  to  get  away  from  Drew. " 

"Murphy,"  said  the  other,  "maybe  that  line 
of  talk  would  sound  sort  of  exaggerated  to  some, 
but  I  ain't  one  of  them.  You  've  got  a  wooden  leg, 


352  Trailin' 

but  your  brain's  sound.  But  tell  me,  what  in 
God's  name  makes  him  so  thick  with  the  tender 
foot?" 

He  waited  for  no  answer,  but  started  for  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  XL 

PARTNERS 

IF  Drew  had  done  hard  things  in  his  life,  few 
were  more  remorseless  than  the  ride  on  the  great 
bay  horse  that  day.  Starting  out,  he  reckoned 
coldly  the  total  strength  of  the  gallant  animal,  the 
distance  to  his  old  house,  and  figured  that  it  was 
just  within  possibilities  that  he  might  reach  the 
place  before  evening.  From  that  moment  it  was 
certain  that  the  horse  would  not  survive  the  ride. 

It  was  merely  a  question  as  to  whether  or  not 
the  master  had  so  gaged  his  strength  that  the  bay 
would  not  collapse  before  even  the  summit  of  the 
range  had  been  reached.  As  the  miles  went  by  the 
horse  loosened  and  extended  finely  to  his  work; 
sweat  darkened  and  polished  his  flanks;  flecks  of 
foam  whirled  back  and  spattered  his  chest  and  the 
legs  of  his  rider;  he  kept  on;  almost  to  the  last 
the  rein  had  to  be  drawn  taut ;  to  the  very  last  his 
heart  was  even  greater  than  his  body. 

Up  the  steep  slopes  Drew  let  the  horse  walk; 
23  353 


354  Trailin' 

every  other  inch  of  the  way  it  was  either  the  fast 
trot  or  a  swinging  gallop,  not  the  mechanical,  easy 
pace  of  the  cattle-pony,  but  a  driving,  lunging 
speed.  The  big  hoofs  literally  smashed  at  the 
rocks,  and  the  ringing  of  it  echoed  hollowly  along 
the  rock  face  of  the  ravine. 

At  the  summit,  for  a  single  moment,  like  a  bird 
of  prey  pausing  in  mid  circle  to  note  the  position 
of  the  field  mouse  before  it  closes  wings  and  bolts 
down  out  of  the  blue,  Drew  sat  his  horse  motion 
less  and  stared  down  into  the  valleys  below  until 
he  noted  the  exact  location  of  his  house — the  lake 
glittered  back  and  up  to  him  in  the  slant  light  of 
the  late  afternoon.  The  bay,  such  was  the  violence 
of  its  panting,  literally  rocked  beneath  him. 

Then  he  started  the  last  downward  course, 
sweeping  along  the  treacherous  trail  with  reckless 
speed,  the  rocks  scattering  before  him.  When 
they  straightened  out  on  the  level  going  beneath, 
the  bay  was  staggering;  there  was  no  longer  any 
of  the  lilt  and  ease  of  the  strong  horse  running ;  it 
was  a  succession  of  jerks  and  jars,  and  the  panting 
was  a  sharper  sound  than  the  thunder  of  the  hoofs. 
His  shoulders,  his  flanks,  his  neck — all  was  foam 
now ;  and  little  by  little  the  proud  head  fell,  reached 
out;  still  he  drove  against  the  bit;  still  the  rider 
had  to  keep  up  the  restraining  pressure. 


Partners  355 

Until  at  last  he  knew  that  the  horse  was  dying 
on  his  feet ;  dying  with  each  heavy  stride  it  made. 
Then  he  let  the  reins  hang  limp.  It  was  sad  to 
see  the  answer  of  the  bay — a  snort,  as  if  of  happi 
ness  ;  a  pricking  of  the  ears ;  a  sudden  lengthening 
of  stride  and  quickening;  a  nobler  lift  to  the 
head. 

Past  the  margin  of  the  lake  they  swept,  crashed 
through  the  woods  to  the  right ;  and  now,  very  dis 
tinctly,  Drew  heard  the  heavy  drum  of  firing. 
He  groaned  and  drove  home  the  spurs.  And  still, 
by  some  miracle,  there  was  something  left  in  the 
horse  which  responded;  not  strength,  certainly 
that  was  gone  long  ago,  but  there  was  an  indomi 
table  spirit  bred  into  it  with  its  fine  blood  by  gentle 
care  for  generations.  The  going  was  heavier  among 
the  trees,  and  yet  the  bay  increased  its  pace.  The 
crackle  of  the  rifles  grew  more  and  more  distinct. 
A  fallen  trunk  blocked  the  way. 

With  a  snort  the  bay  gathered  speed,  rose, 
cleared  the  trunk  with  a  last  glorious  effort,  and 
fell  dead  on  the  other  side. 

Drew  disentangled  his  feet  from  the  stirrup, 
raised  the  head  of  the  horse,  stared  an  instant  in 
to  the  glazing  eyes,  and  then  turned  and  ran  on 
among  the  trees.  Panting,  dripping  with  sweat, 
his  face  contorted  terribly  by  his  effort,  he  came 


356  Trailin* 

at  last  behind  that  rocky  shoulder  which  com 
manded  the  approach  to  the  old  house. 

He  found  seven  men  sheltered  there,  keeping 
up  a  steady,  dropping  fire  on  the,  house.  Mc- 
Namara  sat  propped  against  a  rock,  a  clumsy, 
dirty  bandage  around  his  thigh ;  Isaacs  lay  prone, 
a  stained  rag  twisted  tightly  around  his  shoulder ; 
Lovel  sat  with  his  legs  crossed,  staring  stupidly  down 
to  the  steady  drip  of  blood  from  his  left  forearm. 

But  Ufert,  Kilrain,  Conklin,  and  Nash  main 
tained  the  fight ;  and  Drew  wondered  what  casual 
ties  lay  on  the  other  side. 

At  his  rush,  at  the  sound  of  his  heavy  footfall 
over  the  rocks,  the  four  turned  with  a  single  move 
ment;  Ufert  covered  him  with  a  rifle,  but  Nash 
knocked  down  the  boy's  arm. 

"We've  done  talkin';  it's  our  time  to  listen; 
understand?" 

Ufert,  gone  sullen,  obeyed.  He  was  at  that  age 
between  youth  and  manhood  when  the  blood,  de 
spite  the  songs  of  the  poets,  runs  slow,  cold;  before 
the  heart  has  been  called  out  in  love,  or  even  in 
friendship ;  before  fear  or  hate  or  anything  saving 
a  deep  egoism  has  possessed  the  brain. 

He  looked  about  to  the  others  for  his  cue.  What 
he  saw  disturbed  him.  Shorty  Kilrain,  like  a  boy 
caught  playing  truant,  edged  little  by  little  back 


Partners  357 

against  the  rock ;  Butch  Conklin,  his  eyes  staring» 
had  grown  waxy  pale;  Steve  Nash  himself  was 
sullen  and  gloomy  rather  than  defiant. 

And  all  this  because  of  a  grey  man  far  past  the 
prime  of  life  who  ran  stumbling,  panting,  toward 
them.  At  his  nearer  approach  a  flash  of  under 
standing  touched  Ufert.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sheer 
bulk  of  the  newcomer;  perhaps,  more  than  this,  it 
was  something  of  stern  dignity  that  oppressed  the 
boy  with  awe.  He  fought  against  the  feeling,  but 
he  was  uneasy;  he  wanted  to  be  far  away  from 
that  place. 

Straight  upon  them  the  big  grey  man  strode  and 
halted  in  front  of  Nash. 

He  said,  his  voice  harsh  and  broken  by  his 
running:  "I  ordered  you  to  bring  him  to  me  un 
harmed.  What  does  this  mean,  Nash?" 

The  cowpuncher  answered  sulkily:  "Glendin 
sent  us  out." 

"Don't  lie.  You  sent  yourself  and  took  these 
men.  I've  seen  Glendin. " 

His  wrath  was  tempered  with  a  sneer. 

"But  here  you  are  four  against  one.  Go  down 
and  bring  him  out  to  me  alive ! " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"You  said  you  wanted  no  odds  against  any  one 
man." 


35«  Trailin' 

"When  a  man  and  a  woman  stand  together, " 
answered  Nash,  "they're  worse  than  a  hundred. 
That  devil,  Sally  Fortune,  is  down  there  with 
him." 

A  gun  cracked  from  the  house ;  the  bullet  chipped 
the  rock  with  an  evil  clang,  and  the  flake  of  stone 
whirled  through  the  air  and  landed  at  the  feet  of 
Drew. 

* '  There's  your  answer, ' '  said  Nash.  ' '  But  we've 
got  the  rat  cornered. " 

"Wrong  again.  Calamity  Ben  is  going  t; 
live " 

A  cry  of  joy  came  from  Shorty  Kilrain. 

"Duffy  says  that  he  gave  his  horse  away  to 
Bard — Glendin  has  called  back  your  posse.  Ride, 
Nash !  Or  else  go  down  there  unarmed  and  bring 
Bard  up  to  me." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  the  lips  of  Nash. 

"If  the  law's  done  with  him,  I'm  not.  I  won't 
ride,  and  I  won't  go  down  to  him.  I've  got  the 
upper  hand  and  I'm  going  to  hold  it. " 

"If  you're  afraid  to  go  down,  I  will. " 

Drew  unbuckled  his  cartridge  belt  and  tossed 
it  with  his  gun  against  the  rocks.  He  drew  out  a 
white  handkerchief,  and  holding  it  above  him,  at  a 
full  arm's  length,  he  stepped  out  from  the  shelter. 
The  others,  gathering  at  their  places  of  vantage. 


Partners  359 

watched  his  progress  toward  the  house.  Steve 
Nash  described  it  to  the  wounded  men,  who  had 
dragged  themselves  half  erect. 

"He's  walkin'  right  toward  the  house,  wavin' 
the  white  rag.  They  ain't  goin'  to  shoot.  He's 
goin'  around  the  side  of  the  house.  He's  stopped 
there  under  the  trees. " 

"Where?" 

"At  that  grave  of  his  wife  under  the  two  trees. 
He  waits  there  like  he  expected  Bard  to  come  out 
to  him.  And,  by  God,  there  goes  Bard  to  meet 
him — right  out  into  the  open. " 

"Steady,  Steve!  Drop  that  gun!  If  you  shoot 
now  you'll  have  Drew  on  your  head  afterward. " 

"Don't  I  know  it?  But  God,  wouldn't  it  be 
easy?  I  got  him  square  inside  the  sights.  Jest 
press  the  trigger  and  Anthony  Bard  is  done  for. 
He  walks  up  to  Drew.  He's  got  no  gun  on.  He's 
empty-handed  jest  like  Drew.  He's  said  something 
short  and  quick  and  starts  to  step  across  the  grave. 

"Drew  points  down  to  it  and  makes  an  answer. 
Bard  steps  back  like  he'd  been  hit  across  the  face 
and  stands  there  lookin'  at  the  mound.  What  did 
Drew  say?  I'd  give  ten  years  of  life  to  hear  that 
talk! 

"Bard  looks  sort  of  stunned;  he  stands  there 
with  a  hand  shadin'  his  eyes,  but  the  sun  ain't 


360  Trailin' 

that  bright.  Well,  I  knew  nobody  could  ever 
stand  up  to  Drew. 

"The  chief  is  talkin*  fast  and  hard.  The  young 
feller  shakes  his  head.  Drew  begins  talkin'  again. 
You'd  think  he  was  pleadin'  for  his  life  in  front  of 
a  jury  that  meant  him  wrong.  His  hands  go  out 
like  he  was  makin'  an  election  speech.  He  holds 
one  hand  down  like  he  was  measurin'  the  height  of 
a  kid.  He  throws  up  his  arms  again  like  he'd  lost 
everything  in  the  world. 

"And  now  Bard  has  dropped  the  hand  from  his 
face.  He  looks  sort  of  interested.  He  steps  closer 
to  the  grave  again.  Drew  holds  out  both  his  arms. 
By  God,  boys,  he's  pleadin'  with  Bard. 

"And  the  head  of  Bard  is  dropped.  How's  it 
goin'  to  turn  out?  Drew  wins,  of  course.  There 
goes  Bard's  hand  out  as  if  it  was  pulled  ag'in'  his 
will.  Drew  catches  it  in  both  his  own.  Boys, 
here's  where  we  grab  our  hosses  and  beat  it. " 

He  turned  from  the  rocks  in  haste. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  cried  Conklin.  "Steve, 
are  you  goin'  to  leave  us  here  to  finish  the  job  you 
started?" 

"Finish  it?  You  fools!  Don't  you  see  that 
Drew  and  Bard  is  pals  now?  If  we  couldn't  finish 
Bard  alone,  how'd  we  make  out  ag'in'  the  two  of 
them  ?  The  game's  up,  boys ;  the  thing  that's  left 


Partners  361 

is  for  us  to  save  our  hides — if  we  can — before  them 
two  start  after  us.  If  they  do  start,  then  God  help 
us  all!" 

He  was  already  in  the  saddle. 

"Wait!"  called  Conklin.  "One  of  'em's  a 
tenderfoot.  The  other  has  left  his  gun  here. 
What  we  got  to  fear  from  'em?" 

And  Nash  snarled  in  return:  "If  there  was  a 
chance,  don't  you  think  I'd  take  it?  Don't  you 
see  I'm  givin'  up  every  thin'  that  amounts  to  a 
damn  with  me  ?  Tenderfoot  ?  He  may  act  East 
ern  and  he  may  talk  Eastern,  but  he's  got  West 
ern  blood.  There  ain't  no  other  way  of  explainin' 
it.  And  Drew?  He  didn't  have  no  gun  when  he 
busted  the  back  of  old  Piotto.  I  say,  there's  two 
men,  armed  or  not,  and  between  'em  they  can  do 
more'n  all  of  us  could  dream  of.  Boys,  are  you 
comin'?" 

They  went.  The  wounded  were  dragged  to  their 
feet  and  hoisted  to  their  horses,  groaning.  At  a 
slow  walk  they  started  down  through  the  trees. 
Evening  fell;  the  shadows  slanted  about  them. 
They  moved  faster — at  a  trot — at  a  gallop.  They 
were  like  men  flying  from  a  certain  ruin.  Beyond 
the  margin  of  the  bright  lake  they  fled  and  lost 
themselves  in  the  vast,  secret  heart  of  the  moun 
tain-desert. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

SALLY   WEEPS 

ALL  that  day,  in  a  silence  broken  only  by  mur 
murs  and  side  glances,  Anthony  and  Sally  Fortune 
moved  about  the  old  house  from  window  to  win 
dow,  and  from  crack  to  crack,  keeping  a  steady  eye 
on  the  commanding  rocks  above.  In  one  of  those 
murmurs  they  made  their  resolution.  When  night 
came  they  would  rush  the  rocks,  storm  them  from 
the  front,  and  take  their  chance  with  what  might 
follow.  But  the  night  promised  to  give  but  little 
shelter  to  their  stalking. 

For  in  the  late  afternoon  a  broad  moon  was  al 
ready  climbing  up  from  the  east;  the  sky  was 
cloudless;  there  was  a  threat  of  keen,  revealing 
moonshine  for  the  night.  Only  desperation  could 
make  them  attempt  to  storm  the  rock,  but  by  the 
next  morning,  at  the  latest,  reinforcements  were 
sure  to  come,  and  then  their  fight  would  be  utterly 
hopeless. 

So  when  the  light  of  the  sun  mellowed,  grew 
362 


Sally  Weeps  .  363 

yellow  and  slant,  and  the  shadows  sloped  from 
tree  to  tree,  the  two  became  more  silent  still, 
drawn  and  pale  of  face,  waiting.  Anthony  at  a 
window,  Sally  at  a  crack  which  made  an  excellent 
loophole,  they  remained  moveless. 

It  was  she  who  noted  a  niche  which  might  serve 
as  a  loophole  for  one  of  the  posse,  and  she  fired  at 
it,  aiming  low.  The  clang  of  the  bullet  against 
rock  echoes  clearly  back  to  her,  like  the  soft  chime 
of  a  sheep  bell  from  the  peaceful  distance.  Then, 
as  if  in  answer  to  her  shot,  around  the  edge  of  the 
rocks  appeared  a  moving  rag  of  white  which  grew 
into  William  Drew,  bearing  above  his  head  the 
white  sign  of  the  truce. 

In  her  astonishment  she  looked  to  Bard.  He 
was  quivering  all  over  like  a  hound  held  on  a  tight 
leash,  with  the  game  in  sight,  hungry  to  be  slipped 
upon  it.  The  edge  of  his  tongue  passed  across  his 
colourless  lips.  He  was  like  a  man  who  long  has 
ridden  the  white-hot  desert  and  is  now  about  to 
drink.  There  was  the  same  wild  gleam  in  his  eyes ; 
his  hand  shook  with  nervous  eagerness  as  he 
shifted  and  balanced  his  revolver.  Listening,  in 
her  awe,  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  increasing 
panting ;  a  sound  like  the  breath  of  a  running  man 
approaching  her  swiftly. 

She  slipped  to  his  side. 


Trailin 


"Anthony!" 

He  did  not  answer;  his  gun  steadied;  the  bar 
rel  began  to  incline  down;  his  left  eye  was 
squinting.  She  dropped  to  her  knees  and  seized 
his  wrist. 

"Anthony,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"It's  Drew!"  he  whispered,  and  she  did  not 
recognize  his  voice.  "It's  the  grey  man  I've 
waited  for.  It's  he!" 

In  such  a  tone  a  dying  man  might  speak  of  his 
hope  of  heaven  —  seeing  it  unroll  before  him  in  his 
delirium. 

"But  he's  carrying  the  flag  of  truce,  Anthony. 
You  see  that?" 

"I  see  nothing  except  his  face.  It  blots  out  the 
rest  of  the  world.  I'll  plant  my  shot  there  —  there 
in  the  middle  of  those  lips.  " 

"Anthony,  that's  William  Drew,  the  squarest 
man  on  the  range.  " 

"Sally  Fortune,  that's  William  Drew,  who 
murdered  my  father!" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  with  sharply  indrawn  breath. 
"It  isn't  possible!" 

"I  saw  the  shot  fired.  " 

"But  not  this  way,  Anthony;  not  from  behind 
a  wall!" 

His  emotion  changed  him,  made  him  almost  a 


Sally  Weeps  365 

stranger  to  her.  He  was  shaking  and  palsied  with 
eagerness. 

"I  could  do  nothing  as  bad  as  the  crime  he  has 
done.  For  twenty  years  the  dread  of  his  coming 
haunted  my  father,  broke  him,  aged  him  pre 
maturely.  Every  day  he  went  to  a  secret  room 
and  cared  for  his  revolver — this  gun  here  in  my 
hand,  you  see?  He  and  I — we  were  more  than 
father  and  son — we  were  pals,  Sally.  And  then 
this  devil  called  my  father  out  into  the  night  and 
shot  him.  Damn  him ! ' ' 

"You've  got  to  listen  to  me,  Anthony " 

"I'll  listen  to  nothing,  for  there  he  is  and " 

She  said  with  a  sharp,  rising  ring  in  her  voice: 
"If  you  shoot  At  him  while  he  carries  that  white 
flag  I'll — I'll  send  a  bullet  through  your  head — 
that's  straight !  We  got  only  one  law  in  the  moun 
tains,  and  that's  the  law  of  honour.  If  you  bust 
that,  I'm  done  with  you,  Anthony." 

"Take  my  gun — take  it  quickly,  Sally,  I  can't 
trust  myself;  looking  at  him,  I  can  see  the  place 
where  the  bullet  should  strike  home.  " 

He  forced  the  butt  of  his  revolver  into  her  hands, 
rose,  and  stepped  to  the  door,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back. 

"Tell  me  what  he  does." 

"He's  comin'  straight  toward  us  as  if  he  didn't 


366  Trailin' 

fear  nothin' — grey  William  Drew!  He's  not 
packin'  a  gun;  he  trusts  us. " 

"The  better  way,"  answered  Bard.  ''Bare 
hands — the  better  way!" 

"He  has  killed  men  with  those  bare  hands  of 
his.  I  can  see  'em  clear — great,  blunt-fingered 
hands,  Anthony.  He's  coming  around  the  side 
of  the  house.  I'll  go  into  the  front  room. " 

She  ran  past  Anthony  and  paused  in  the  habit 
able  room,  spying  through  a  crack  in  the  wall. 
And  Anthony  stood  with  his  eyes  tightly  closed, 
his  head  bowed.  The  image  of  the  leashed  hound 
came  more  vividly  to  her  when  she  glanced  back 
at  him. 

"He's  walkin'  right  up  the  path.  There  he 
stops. " 

"Where?" 

"Right  beside  the  old  grave.  " 

"Anthony!"  called  a  deep  voice.  "Anthony, 
come  out  to  me!" 

He  started,  and  then  groaned  and  stopped 
himself. 

"Is  the  sign  of  the  truce  still  over  his  head, 
Sally?" 

"Yes." 

"I  daren't  go  out  to  him — I'd  jump  at  his 
throat." 


Sally  Weeps  367 

She  came  beside^  him. 

"It  means  something  besides  war.  I  can  see 
it  in  his  face.  Pain — sorrow,  Anthony,  but  not  a 
wish  for  fightin'." 

From  the  left  side  of  his  cartridge  belt  a  stout- 
handled,  long-bladed  hunting-knife  was  suspended. 
He  disengaged  the  belt  and  tossed  it  to  the  floor. 
Still  he  paused. 

"If  I  go,  I'll  break  the  truce,  Sally. " 

"You  won't;  you're  a  man,  Anthony;  and  re 
member  that  you're  on  the  range,  and  the  law  of 
the  range  holds  you. " 

"Anthony!"  called  the  deep  voice  without. 

He  shuddered  violently. 

"What  is  it?" 

"It  sounds — like  the  voice  of  my  father  calling 
me!  I  must  go!" 

She  clung  to  him. 

"Not  till  you're  calmer. " 

"My  father  died  in  my  arms,"  he  answered; 
"let  me  go." 

He  thrust  her  aside  and  strode  out  through  the 
door. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  grave  stood  Drew,  his 
grey  head  bare,  and  looking  past  him  Anthony 
saw  the  snow-clad  tops  of  the  Little  Brother,  grey 
also  in  the  light  of  the  evening.  And  the  trees 


368  Trailin' 

whose  branches  interwove  above  the  grave — grey 
also  with  moss.  The  trees,  the  mountain,  the 
old  headstone,  the  man — they  blended  into  a 
whole. 

"Anthony!''  said  the  man,  "I  have  waited  half 
my  life  for  this!" 

"And  I, "  said  Bard,  "have  waited  a  few  weeks 
that  seem  longer  than  all  my  life,  for  this!" 

His  own  eager  panting  stopped  him,  but  he 
stumbled  on:  "I  have  you  here  in  reach  at  last, 
Drew,  and  I'm  going  to  tear  your  heart  out,  as 
you  tore  the  heart  out  of  John  Bard. " 

"Ah,  Anthony,"  said  the  other,  "my  heart 
was  torn  out  when  you  were  born ;  it  was  torn  out 
and  buried  here. " 

And  to  the  wild  eyes  of  Anthony  it  seemed  as 
if  the  great  body  of  Drew,  so  feared  through  the 
mountain-desert,  was  now  enveloped  with  weak 
ness,  humbled  by  some  incredible  burden. 

After  that  a  mist  obscured  his  eyes ;  he  could  not 
see  more  than  an  outline  of  the  great  shape  before 
him ;  his  throat  contracted  as  if  a  hand  gripped  him 
there,  and  an  odd  tingling  came  at  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  He  moved  forward. 

"It  is  more  than  I  dreamed, "  he  said  hoarsely, 
as  his  foot  planted  firmly  on  the  top  of  the  grave, 
and  he  poised  himself  an  instant  before  flinging 


Sally  Weeps  369 

himself  on  the  grey  giant.  "It  is  more  than  I 
dreamed  for — to  face  you — alone!" 

And  a  solemn,  even  voice  answered  him,  "We 
are  not  alone. " 

' '  Not  alone,  but  the  others  are  too  far  off  to  stop 
me. " 

"Not  alone,  Anthony,  for  your  mother  is  here 
between  us. " 

Like  a  fog  under  a  wind,  the  mist  swept  from  the 
eyes  of  Anthony ;  he  looked  out  and  saw  that  the 
face  of  the  grey  man  was  infinitely  sad,  and  there 
was  a  hungry  tenderness  that  reached  out,  en 
veloped,  weakened  him.  He  glanced  down,  saw 
that  his  heel  was  on  the  mount  of  the  grave;  saw 
again  the  headstone  and  the  time-blurred  inscrip 
tion:  "Here  sleeps  Joan,  the  wife  of  William  Drew. 
She  chose  this  place  for  rest. " 

A  mortal  weakness  and  trembling  seized  him. 
The  wind  puffed  against  his  face,  and  he  went 
staggering  back,  his  hand  caught  up  to  his  eyes. 

He  closed  his  mind  against  the  words  which  he 
had  heard. 

But  the  deep  organ  voice  spoke  again :  ' '  Oh,  boy, 
your  mother!" 

In  the  stupor  which  came  over  him  he  saw  two 
faces:  the  stern  eyes  of  John  Bard,  and  the  dark, 
mocking  beauty  of  the  face  which  had  looked  down 
24 


3?o  Trailin' 

to  him  in  John  Bard's  secret  room.  He  lowered  his 
hand  from  his  eyes;  he  stared  at  William  Drew, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  John  Bard  he 
looked  upon.  Their  names  differed,  but  long  pain 
had  touched  them  with  a  common  greyness.  And 
it  seemed  to  Anthony  that  it  was  only  a  moment 
ago  that  the  key  turned  in  the  lock  of  John  Bard's 
secret  room,  the  hidden  chamber  which  he  kept  like 
Bluebeard  for  himself,  where  he  went  like  Blue 
beard  to  see  his  past ;  only  an  instant  before  he  had 
turned  the  key  in  that  lock,  the  door  opened,  and 
this  was  the  scene  which  met  his  eyes — the  grave, 
the  blurred  tombstone,  and  the  stern  figure 
beyond. 

"Joan,"  he  repeated;  "your  wife — my  mother?" 

He  heard  a  sob,  not  of  pain,  but  of  happiness, 
and  knew  that  the  blue  eyes  of  Sally  Fortune 
looked  out  to  him  from  the  doorway  of  the  house. 

The  low  voice,  hurried  now,  broke  in  on  him. 

"When  I  married  Joan,  John  Bard  fled  from  the 
range ;  he  could  not  bear  to  look  on  our  happiness. 
You  see,  I  had  won  her  by  chance,  and  he  hated 
me  for  it.  If  you  had  ever  seen  her,  Anthony,  you 
would  understand.  I  crossed  the  mountains  and 
came  here  and  built  this  house,  for  your  mother 
was  like  a  wild  bird,  Anthony,  and  I  did  not  dare 
to  let  men  near  her ;  then  a  son  was  born,  and  she 


Sally  Weeps  37 l 

died  giving  him  birth.  Afterward  I  lived  on  here, 
close  to  the  place  which  she  had  chosen  herself  for 
rest.  And  I  was  happy  because  the  boy  grew  every 
day  into  a  more  perfect  picture  of  his  dead  mother. 

"One  day  when  he  was  almost  three  I  rode  off 
through  the  hills,  and  when  I  came  back  the  boy 
was  gone.  I  rode  with  a  posse  everywhere,  hunt 
ing  him;  aye,  Anthony,  the  trail  which  I  started 
then  I  have  kept  at  ever  since,  year  after  year,  and 
here  it  ends  where  it  began — at  the  grave. of  Joan! 

"Finally  I  came  on  news  that  a  man  much  like 
John  Bard  in  appearance  had  been  seen  near  my 
house  that  day.  Then  I  knew  it  was  Bard  in  fact. 
He  had  seen  the  image  of  the  woman  we  both  loved 
in  the  boy.  He  was  all  that  was  left  of  her  on 
earth.  After  these  years  I  can  read  his  heart 
clearly ;  I  know  why  he  took  the  boy. 

"Then  I  left  this  place.  I  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  the  grave;  for  she  slept  in  peace,  and  I 
lived  in  hell  waiting  for  the  return  of  my  son. 

"At  last  I  went  East;  I  was  at  Madison  Square 
Garden  and  saw  you  ride.  It  was  the  face  of  Joan 
that  looked  back  at  me ;  and  I  knew  that  I  was  close 
to  the  end  of  the  trail. 

"The  next  night  I  called  out  John  Bard.  He 
had  been  in  hell  all  those  years,  like  me,  for  he  had 
waited  for  my  coming.  He  begged  me  to  let  him 


372  Trailin' 

have  you;  said  you  loved  him  as  a  father;  I  only 
laughed.  So  we  fought,  and  he  fell ;  and  then  I  saw 
you  running  over  the  lawn  toward  us. 

''I  remembered  Joan,  her  pride  and  her  fierce 
ness,  and  I  'knew  that  if  I  waited  a  son  would  kill 
his  father  that  night.  So  I  turned  and  fled  through 
the  trees.  Anthony,  do  you  believe  me;  do  you 
for  give  me?" 

The  memory  of  the  clumsy,  hungered  tenderness 
of  John  Bard  swept  about  Anthcny. 

He  cried :  ' '  How  can  I  believe  ?  My  father  has 
killed  my  father;  what  is  left?" 

The  solemn  voice  replied:  ''Anthony,  my  son!" 

He  saw  the  great,  blunt-fingered  hands  which 
had  killed  men,  which  were  feared  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  mountain-desert, 
stretched  out  to  him. 

"Anthony  Drew!"  said  the  voice. 

His  hand  went  out,  feebly,  by  slow  degrees,  and 
was  caught  in  a  mighty  double  clasp.  Warmth 
flowed  through  him  from  that  grasp,  and  a  great 
emotion  troubled  him,  and  a  voice  from  deep  to 
deep  echoed  within  him — the  call  of  blood  to  blood. 
He  knew  the  truth,  for  the  hate  burned  out  in  him 
and  left  only  an  infinite  sadness. 

He  said:  "What  of  the  man  who  loved  me? 
Whom  I  love?" 


Sally  Weeps  373 

"I  have  done  penance  for  that  death, "  answered 
William  Drew,  "and  I  shall  do  more  penance 
before  I  die.  For  I  am  only  your  father  in  name, 
but  he  is  the  father  in  your  thoughts  and  in  your 
love.  Is  it  true  ? ' ' 

"It  is  true, "  said  Anthony. 

And  the  other,  bitterly:  "In  his  life  he  was  as 
strong  as  I ;  in  his  death  he  is  still  stronger.  It  is 
his  victory;  his  shadow  falls  between  us.  " 

But  Anthony  answered :  "Let  us  go  together  and 
bring  his  body  and  bury  it  at  the  left  side  of — my 
mother." 

"Lad,  it  is  the  one  thing  we  can  do  together, 
and  after  that?" 

A  plaintive  sound  came  to  the  ear  of  Anthony, 
and  he  looked  down  to  see  Sally  Fortune  weeping 
at  the  grave  of  Joan.  Better  than  both  the  men 
she  understood,  perhaps.  In  the  deep  tenderness 
which  swelled  through  him  he  caught  a  sense  of 
the  drift  of  life  through  many  generations  of  the 
past  and  projecting  into  the  future,  men  and 
women  strong  and  fair  and  each  with  a  high  and 
passionate  love. 

The  men  died  and  the  women  changed,  but  the 
love  persisted  with  the  will  to  live.  It  came  from  a 
thousand  springs,  but  it  rolled  in  one  river  to  one 
sea.  The  past  stood  there  in  the  form  of  William 


374  Trailin' 

Drew;  he  and  Sally  made  the  present,  and  through 
his  love  of  her  sprang  the  hope  of  the  future. 

It  was  all  very  clear  to  him.  The  love  of  Bard 
and  Drew  for  Joan  Piotto  had  not  died,  but  passed 
through  the  flame  and  the  torment  of  the  three 
ruined  lives  and  returned  again  with  gathering 
power  as  the  force  which  swept  him  and  Sally 
Fortune  out  into  that  river  and  toward  that  far-off 
sea.  The  last  mist  was  brushed  from  his  eyes.  He 
saw  with  a  piercing  vision  the  world,  himself,  life. 
He  looked  to  William  Drew  and  saw  that  he  was 
gazing  on  an  old  and  broken  man. 

He  said  to  the  old  man:  "Father,  she  is  wiser 
than  us  both." 

And  he  pointed  to  Sally  Fortune,  still  weeping 
softly  on  the  grave  of  Joan. 

But  William  Drew  had  no  eye  for  her;  he  was 
fallen  into  a  deep  muse  over  the  blurred  inscrip 
tion  on  the  headstone.  He  did  not  even  raise  his 
head  when  Anthony  touched  Sally  Fortune  on  the 
shoulder.  She  rose,  and  they  stole  back  together 
toward  the  house.  There,  as  they  stood  close  to 
gether,  Sally  murmured :  ' '  It  is  cruel  to  leave  him 
alone.  He  needs  us  now,  close  to  him. " 

His  hand  wandered  slowly  across  her  hair, 
and  he  said :  ' '  Sally,  how  close  can  we  ever  be  to 
him?" 


Sally  Weeps  375 

"  We  can  only  watch  and  wait  and  try  to  under 
stand,"  murmured  Sally  Fortune. 

They  were  so  close  to  the  door  of  the  ruined 
house,  now,  that  a  taint  of  burnt  powder  crept  out 
to  them,  a  small,  keen  odour,  and  with  a  sudden 
desire  to  protect  her,  he  drew  her  close  to  him. 
There  was  no  tensing  of  her  body  when  his  arm 
went  around  her  and  he  knew  with  a  rush  of 
tenderness  how  completely,  how  perfectly  she 
accepted  him.  Over  the  hand  which  held  her  he 
felt  soft  fingers  settle  to  keep  it  in  its  place,  and 
when  he  looked  down  he  found  that  her  face  was 
raised,  and  the  eyes  which  brooded  on  him  were 
misty  bright,  like  the  eyes  of  a  child  when  joy 
overflows  in  it,  but  awe  keeps  it  quiet. 

THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


1 3  Mai  '53  C  SI 


General  Library     m 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


YB 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


